Diligo Victum Nusquam
by Maiden of the Moon
Summary: "On Earth, this desire is often called 'love.' In Hell, I feign that they recognize it as hunger." — C.S. Lewis. SebaCiel.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:**I own nothing. Quell surprise.

**Author's Note:**Madeleine-Elizabeth made the silly mistake of sharing a good fanfic idea with me. Admittedly, I went my own direction with it, but the basic idea remains hers. I just stole it. (With permission, of course. XD;)

I do want to preface this by saying that this fic is, at its core, an alternate season II. It deals with many of the same themes (especially in regards to character development); it just pushes and pulls those developments in different directions, and to different extremes.

I just think that's something important to keep in mind. C:

**Warnings:** SebaCiel. Ignores season II (mostly). Fail editing. Death, destruction, depravity. OCs. Religious themes.

**XXX**

**X**

"On Earth, this desire is often called 'love.' In Hell, I feign that they recognize it as hunger."  
>—C.S. Lewis<p>

**X**

**Diligo Victum Nusquam**

_Prologue_

**X**

**XXX**

_Kshtfffffffffffff_—

In the beginning was the word.

But before there could be a word, there had to be a sound. Before a sound, a thought. Before a thought, a creature to have it. And assuming that there had to be something to give birth to the thought-having creature, well—then there was no true beginning, was there? It has always been a centripetal cycle, a paper mobius strip, rolling round and round and round and round like a reel of film in a canister.

Round and round and round and round, like our bodies in the moonlight. I stepped to the left; he stepped to the right. Against the cotton pallor of his gloved hands, the star-white glint of sharpened cutlery was almost rendered invisible; in the shadow of that same ethereal glow, my own blades glimmered blue. The blackness of this autumn midnight cloaked our movements better than the finest velvet coat; I imagine that the little boy hiding in the mouth of the alley had to squint just to make out our blurry contours. What a pity that he should have to strain such lovely azure eyes… But there was no helping that.

"Kill him! Kill him _now_, that is an _order!_" the pretty child was demanding, stamping booted feet to fight both frustration and chill. His butler and I continued our strange and tireless dance; if the devil before me made a reply, I did not bother to listen to it. My attention was not trained upon his voice, or his gaze, or even his weapons. Rather, I was calculating how many swipes of my Death Scythe it would take to pierce through the wool of his jacket—the cage of his ribs—the flesh of his heart. Each layer would provide its own challenges, but nothing overly troubling, nothing I hadn't anticipated. There was a reason I had not accepted Grell's offer to borrow his weapon, after all.

With the slide of a single nimble foot, the collared demon before me thrust an arm outward, allowing his daggers to fly; I ducked just as swiftly, feeling a rush of wind and relishing the whistle of cleanly sliced air. As my enemy regained his balance, I introduced myself more intimately; the utensils clattered uselessly against worn bricks and cobbled ground, and my hand wrapped around his pallid throat. Excess knives slipped through a weakened fist, and with the help of one pointed heel, I snapped them easily in two. My pleasant smile made the other's eyebrow twitch in irritation.

"That was my master's good silverware," he protested with whatever oxygen was left in his fake mortal lungs. I started at this, mockingly surprised, before tutting in disapproval.

"My apologies. But in truth, you should have thought of that before wasting such a precious resource on a poorly implemented attack." It was never too late to learn a valuable lesson, after all, though I highly doubted he'd ever have a chance to utilize this wisdom; as my rebuke set in, I raised my machete for the final blow—

But at that exact moment, the little boy screamed. An earsplitting, repugnant noise it was, serenading the otherworldly gleam of his blasted Contract seal.

_And the walls come tumbling, tumbling down._

The symbol's mate burned itself anew on my prey, reminding him of the promises he had made. The sight of it stilled my heart, my mind, and I—

_Eating will rip you apart._

With a vigorous kick to the lower stomach, I was thrown to the far wall and forced to squander costly seconds gathering my scrambled senses. Though I had never heard of him, this devil must certainly have held some prestige Below, if he had the power to shove _me _aside. I coughed sharply, in response to both mucus and injury.

Sadly for the demon, however, he wasted what little time he'd garnered for himself as I lay sprawled amongst debris, apparently torn between following his orders and saving both himself and the child. Though his face remained emotionless, his internal calculations had undoubtedly provided him with the answer that we'd both known from the start: I would win. It was inevitable. And with a Death Scythe in my grasp, his loss would mean far more than just a superficial scar.

As I brushed away the volley of chalk and dust that had rained down upon my shoulders, the demon seemed to come to a decision. Before, his master had demanded my death; what could he do but obey? And that devotion, I knew, was something I could use to my advantage.

"Is this the extent of your loyalty?" I inquired politely, readjusting my hold on my weapons. With the silvery blades pointed downward and his own hands free of cutlery, it almost looked as if we were about to engage in old-fashioned fisticuffs. In was an intentional illusion, on my part. If he forgot my supernatural disadvantage, he would grow cocky. I gave myself three more minutes. "I do believe I heard your master command my immediate execution. And yet, here I stand—nothing more than a trifle dirtier. I say, at this rate, I'll die of old age before you manage to do anything more."

The devil scowled, lip curling upward. Whether it was a show of distaste for my mocking or merely an expression of irritation was anyone's guess, and frankly, I had neither the time nor inclination to play games. Either way, it was uncouth, as was the feral flash of a hone canine. And that was exactly what I wanted: brutishness. Mindlessness. Raw fury and rawer power, because the more animalistic he became, the less he would rely on intellect. I preferred my opponents stupid; I found them easier to break.

"Surely you aren't going to stand there all night?" I taunted, simpering as I sauntered slowly in his general direction. "Or could it be that you are already conceding the fight? Shall I cut you into ribbons right now? Or maybe I should first make a prize of that tempting scrap of meat you are so keen to protect…?" I made a show of licking my lips, sensual and hungry. But what really made this tactic effective was the knowledge that we two shared: that it was only half an act.

I did so like that child's pretty, pretty eyes…

Behind my demon friend, the boy continued shrieking. Before him, I wore a goading sneer. And because it was me, and because it was _his _orders, and because devils are violent creatures by nature, he attacked with full strength. Appropriately, it was with full strength that I blocked one blow, dodged another, threw my first, leapt from his path, tripped him off his feet, bounded a foot away, countered when he followed…

Once again, I was forced to concede that I had underestimated this nameless filth; he was more of an opponent than I had been expecting. Or no, perhaps—perhaps _I _was the one who wasn't quite up to snuff, for what few punches he did manage to land on me hurt much more than I would have thought possible. I was not unused to pain, of course— of any brand or type—, but to howl in agony when he rammed his claws half-way through my torso seemed a bit histrionic, in retrospect. At the time, though, it was all I could do to keep breathing; my gasps bubbled and gurgled in my throat, mixing with spurts of blood and sludge. As I had far-too-often over the past few weeks, I painted my clothes and palm with sprays of scarlet. The color was accentuated by the acidic spice of vomit and blobs of a tar-like substance that I tried not to think too hard on. My throat seared, my belly ached; as I fell to one knee, doubled over on the sidewalk, the smirking butler sidled over to loom above me, cracking stained knuckles in preparation for further torture.

Foolish spawn.

With a swiftness that the narcissist couldn't possibly have foreseen, I twirled my blade around and rammed it at an angle through the bone of his sternum. The rippling mercury of the metal's icy surface was instantly slickened by burgundy; beneath my fist, I could feel the cartilage of his ribs bend and warp and shatter. In the next instant, his innermost muscle had popped like an egg yolk: through gelatinous films of lipids and meat, life force oozed and seeped and splattered against my forehead, cheek, chin.

I twisted the blade for good measure, but in truth it was a waste of effort: from the gaping hole above me, serpentine tendrils of memory were flooding my vision with the same speed as the fluids. The sound of those papery rustles, the brush and tickle of that semi-translucent tape, was as telling to me as a pulse. My prey was dead.

I stood as if my agony were an act. His body was pushed aside without a second thought once I'd retrieved my Scythe from his center; he was hardly worth the mess he'd left upon my weapon, when all was said and done. I wiped the gore off on a scrap of shadow, suppressing another barrage of coughing as I did so. And perhaps it was that distracting rumble in my chest that allowed the boy to catch me off guard; I had difficulties masking my shock when he came barreling past me, screeching his servant's given name.

For a spell, I considered him. I considered taking him. I considered his pretty eyes, and his lithe limbs, and his young face. I considered the threat I'd made, and how nice it would be to live up to it—to use him, abuse him, and slit his skinny throat, leaving two sacks of organs for the Undertaker to violate.

But then I noticed with disgusting clarity that his pretty, pretty eyes—so deep in the embrace of the faraway gloom—were in truth much lighter than was my preference, and his features far too round. His hair was light and his voice exasperatingly pitched; nothing at all attractive about him, really. Disappointed, I allowed myself a tiny sigh before stabbing him swiftly through the back, effectively silencing all of his sobbing and the shaking of the corpse that he'd hauled into his lap. Two new dolls for the Undertaker, regardless. Just because I didn't want to play with the proffered toy, didn't mean I had the right to deny another his pleasure. Besides, I couldn't very well let him live; he might summon someone else, and my list of targets was quite long enough, thank you.

Choking on another deeply-lodged cough, I turned my musings to happier topics, and in so doing felt all the better for not having wasted my time with the demon's trash. My chest hurt, my tongue tasted sour, and judging by my limp I'd twisted my ankle, but I had completed the night's objective, just as I had the night before. And the night before that. And the night before that. On and on and round and round, just like so many other things in life and death.

On and on. I traveled on and on, swathed in darkness both my own and borrowed from the night; behind me I left a trail of claret breadcrumbs, beaded and outlined in sick. From a nameless back alley to Piccadilly Circus, from Piccadilly Circus to Hyde Park, from Hyde Park to a dusty shop with cobwebbed windows.

_Kyrie Eleison._

My mind whispered with it.

_Miserere Domine._

I let myself in without knocking. The door obliged my wish with little more than a tinny squeak, for it was never locked. Though the candles had long-since been extinguished and the moon was setting beyond the silhouette of London's Babel-inspired architecture, I could see every crook, nook, and cranny of the morgue as if it were high noon. There, the potions for preservation. There, an urn of rock salt. Here, a table for embalmment and decoration. Here, a stack of boards for coffins. But it was the backroom, not the front, that called out to me, so I wasted no time in sidestepping all of the aforementioned obstructions.

_Si Deus me relinquit._

Beyond the heavy curtain, red as the hand of mine that grasped it, lay a room of occultism that would have made the country's bored aristocracy green with envy. Books of spells and Satanism, Bibles and verses of black poetry; psalms that told the past and future; herbs and crystals that made my skin tingle; iconography that would make Both Sides quiver in discomfort. The long, wooden shelves groaned under the weight of tomes and skulls and pig fat candles, notes and dates and quills. Along the far wall, an array of polished Death Scythes awaited use; there was a special rack for the Undertaker's own beloved tool. And beside that rack, secreted away in the house's dankest corner…

_Ego deum relinquo._

It reached from floor to ceiling, the monstrosity in the corner. Even blanketed, as it was, beneath a draping bolt of ebony silk, it was easy to distinguish its shape: an upturned casket, tall as myself, resting on the flat of its trapezoidal bottom. An unsurprising addition to such a room, in such a place. But through the insubstantial barrier of that chilled cloth, I could hear the muffled burbling of frothing liquid. Against the folds and ripples of the onyx fabric, wavering lines of foam-white danced: remnants of light that had fractured as it traveled through the prism of unseen water. With a gentle touch, I ghosted bloodied fingertips over the slippery textile. So delicate it was, the threads caught on the calluses and cuts of my hand; the sheet crumpled noiselessly, and I thought of Jericho.

_Omnias ianuas praecludo._

The coffin's back and sides were comprised of black lacquered wood, but its lid was made of clearest crystal—held in place by golden gears that looked and acted like raven's claws. The smooth surface was cold when I pressed my palm to it; my breath became a mist that clung and pearled and dripped like tears. And beyond that glass— held between earth and sky by the might of a miniature sea— floated the wraithlike form of a tiny English boy, head lolled and limbs lax. As the water rippled, so did his hoary locks; when the bottom of the macabre tank bubbled, a breath left his lips. His bones and innards strained at the thin veneer of his clammy flesh, and in some places, succeeded in poking through; he was pale as Death, for Death had long since named him a cousin. And between his two pierced ears—running through his skull as if it were a spool—an endless strip of memories played, cycling round and round and round, filling the reservoir with an excess of transparent film.

_Sic omnias precationes obsigno._

"I have returned," I murmured to the child, and I could feel my eyes softening as I tried to meet his own. Almost entirely hidden behind the fringe of gray lashes, his slivered irises were little more than crescent moons of navy in the twilight of this purgatory. I coughed again; the vapor that congealed upon the lucent lid thinned and diffused the spattering of crimson. "I accomplished my objective. What do you wish of me now?"

_Salva me._

I waited, I watched. My shirt, already caked in grime, drank in the dew that beaded atop the shell of the frosted cistern. And when the vents in its base finally breathed, so did he; with a careful stare, I watched his plasticized lips twitch to form a string of desperate letters.

"K…ill…" A minute's pause; coagulated foam faded. Then, with the grind and whirl of concealed machinery, oxygen and movement returned. "M…o…r…"

He could do no more. What little light had been animating his gemstone eyes became deadened and dull; he looked more like a cadaver than ever before. But that didn't matter. Nothing else mattered. And though I wasn't even certain if he could see me standing there, I fell into a bow all the same—gaze never wavering as I pressed a sullied hand to my aching chest.

"Yes, my lord."

—_abmeterribilissimoipseffffff_

**XXX**


	2. Unum

**Disclaimer: **I own a whole bunch of anime DVDs, but I make no money from having them in my possession. Or from writing this.

**Author's Note: **Woo, back with chapter one! :'D Hopefully things will start to make a little more sense, now…

**Warnings: **SebaCiel. Ignores season II (mostly). Death, destruction, depravity. Fail editing. OCs. Religious themes.

**XXX**

**X**

**XXX**

_Kshtfffffffffffff_—

His eyes were twin pits of darkness and death: the deepest blue of the sea, suffocating and cold. _You could drown in them_, I'd think. _You could kill with them_. Through the ebony casement of his dilated pupil, I could glimpse a soul that shone with the same black luster as the orb itself. Opalescent, evanescent. I wanted them both.

Before I even heard that voice, his pretty eyes called out to me: summoned me piece by starving piece from so much accumulated gore; forced upon me form and face. And then he stared at me (_oh, how the past parallels the present!_) with the eyes of one who had lost the light of Heaven, and in that moment, I knew. It was the first spider-thread to bind him and I—the first strand of a web that would irrevocably tangle our souls.

"_Would one who believes in God summon the likes of you?" he snapped, and there was such a _fire_ in his gaze; I half-wondered why the oceanic blue-blue-blue of his irises wasn't boiling, foaming over to spill down his cheeks in sizzling streams. Such gaunt, pasty cheeks, matted in stink and caked in blood. I mused on how much meat I could salvage from his bones; I wondered how little work it'd be to fully damn his soul. He'd all but handed it to me on a silver platter—a three minute bloodbath of vengeance in exchange for fleeting satiation. _

_It almost seemed a waste, really; such pretty eyes were rare. I wanted them, just as I wanted his soul. I wanted them both._

I wanted…

"What has been sacrificed will never be returned." Such a grave intonation; I almost laughed at the irony. Almost. But I was weary, and I was hungry, and I was tired of seeing him lie atop that makeshift altar, bare but for a swatch of shroud. "You have been given a choice."

Choice? What choice? This was not a matter of choice. There was never any choice. There is no such thing.

His icy eyes found mine, ringed in color and thick plastic frames. "Now choose," the reaper demanded, as if oblivious to my turmoil. The frost that coated his words seemed to hang in the air, clinging like rime to his fingers. He had raised those flesh-toned icicles a mere moment before: extended his scalpel-thin hand and cut across the expanse of the boy's exposed belly, so swift and precise that I almost expected to see blood. Behind thin lips, grinding teeth were clenched; within his free fist, he gripped the shaft of his Scythe. I, in turn, clasped his extended hand. The chill of death met the smolder of hellfire with an almost audible hiss.

And so began my second Contract.

**XXX**

**Diligo Victum Nusquam**

_Unum_

**XXX**

He wasn't gentle. In that, at least, Sebastian kept his promise: the child's quivering lashes had hardly met his cheekbones before his butler fell upon him, and were his mouth his own, he would have shook the very earth with his screams. Unconsciousness was fleeting, the excruciation was so great; there was the loving rip of nails from their beds, nibbled to nothingness like little hors d'oeuvres. There was the delicate _pop_ of joint from joint, and the scintillating _shred _of muscles torn from ligaments. There was the feel of lip on lip, so familiar in itself, and the searing sensation of an asthma attack as the air was torn ever-so-sweetly from his lungs. The demon chewed; the demon swallowed. The demon went back for more, leaving a trail of rose red love-marks down pastel valleys of tender flesh. And he sampled, and he savored; he relished and consumed. But even as he delighted in his master's bittersweet bouquet, the tang of despair and the flavor of grim satisfaction, the eternal rumbling in his stomach felt no less sated than before.

In fact, the abyss within him felt… wider, somehow. Deeper.

It was a strange sensation, to feel so full and yet so empty. For many long, long moments the _foreignness_ of it all kept Sebastian from wholly realizing the extent of his continued discomfort; understandable, then, that for the first passing hour he assumed starvation had simply taken its toll, and his belly was rebelling at being ignored for so long. But when one hour became two (and the boy became scraps), Sebastian was forced to recognize that something was intrinsically _wrong _with this situation. What should have tasted like the juiciest, choicest meat lingered on his tongue with the astringency of rotted fat; organs were nothing more than gelatinous morsels to choke on. In the back of his throat, bile was beginning to rise—another millimeter upward for every bite he forced himself to take. When the unseen bell tower finally tolled three, the demon-who'd-been-a-butler paused in his supping, grease-smeared hand falling limply to his side.

By now, Ciel's soul was nothing more than a mangled husk: an eviscerated skeleton with tattered skin and blinded eyes. He looked fit for vultures, flopped as he was upon the granite bench. It did not surprise Sebastian, then, when the scavengers arrived.

_My my. You certainly made a feast out of a famine. _

The low voice was sinfully silken, drawn out by a luxuriant lilt; yet, the edges of the words were hewn and frayed, like archaic foppery. It was the voice of a patient observer—balanced on the razor edge between boredom and amusement— and Sebastian recognized it instantly.

"Hello, Baalberith," the demon greeted blandly, sparing only an instant to shoot the curtest of glances in his companion's direction. Above, hidden in the shade of the looming pines, a beady-eyed crow had made itself a comfortable perch atop the stone ledge of a crumbling window. When Sebastian's gaze fell upon it, it cocked its feathered head and squawked. "To what do I owe this distinct displeasure?"

Far above the slate-plated ground, the shadowy crow shuffled from foot to scaly foot, neck jerking left and right in clipped, mechanical motions. Baalberith had never been very good at maintaining earthly forms, even in the middle realms of purgatory and limbo.

_And to what do _I _owe such rudeness? _the second devil countered, though his tone lacked the traditional tells of offence. Rather, he remained in seemingly good spirits; even the crow's emotionless face failed to mask his evident enthusiasm. _Our Father Below is not pleased with you, little prince. Nor is your sire, Lord __Asmodeus__. They are very interested to hear why you chose to break our cardinal rule. _

"I am certain that they are. Moreover, you seem rather interested yourself," Sebastian returned coolly, still regarding the shattered spirit of his master. As the minutes passed, the corporeal manifestation of Ciel's essence had begun to slowly decompose: sludgy skin oozing off of jellified bones. He would soon lose whatever life-force still lingered in his core; not long after, he would be nothing more than a glutinous mound of unadulterated astral. No less appetizing a dish for a proper demon. Still, the thought made Sebastian feel uncharacteristically ill. "But is it not in a devil's nature to disobey direct orders?"

Baalberith hummed—or the avian equivalent, anyway—as he ruffled midnight-colored wings. _What a funny attempt at justification, coming from one as obsequious_ _as yourself, _he commented wryly, settling himself more pointedly in anticipation of an entertaining conversation. _Do not forget, little prince, that I have seen all that has and will be—of course I know of your time with this boy. You were calculating and cruel, yes, but less so even than the humans who tortured him. I have seen angels who have better undermined Heavenly edicts than you did when working to fulfill that child's desires. I feign you found his antics amusing, and did not want to cut them short, did you? _

Sebastian scowled, suddenly wishing he knew where he'd dropped his other arm. He'd have rather enjoyed throwing something at the blabbering bird. "Perhaps eternity is different for one such as you, privileged to know and see whatever you'd like," the younger creature growled, still obstinately refusing to meet the demon's stare. "But for the rest of us, existence has no more meaning than what we next plan to put in our bellies. If I may be so bold, I do not think you have the _right_, my friend, to critique how I choose to play with my food."

He was answered with a cackle; the sound echoed in Sebastian's ears like the shriek of copper wires snapping, of distorted I-beams splitting from half-constructed bridges— screeching as they tumbled into the void of a churning river.

_Is that what you are calling it? 'Play?' You think this is a game? _Baalberith sneered, unfeeling gaze bright with condescending mirth. _No, child. No. It is a game when we lure the sheep from the pack. It is a game when we pretend that we will save them. It is a game when we gain their loyalty, only to crush them like the insignificant worms that they are. It is not a game when your own soul is on the line. _

A deadpanned glower was his initial reply. It was soon followed by a drone of equal dryness. "If I might take the liberty to paraphrase, then," the younger devil intoned, expressionless. "It is not a game when the stakes are fair."

The crack of flapping wings; the clatter of a chattering beak. _"Fair?" "Fair?" What is "fair?" _the crow demanded over the deafening rustle of its tousled feathers. _If things were "fair," would we be reviled? If things were "fair," would we have lost our home Above? There is no such thing as "fair," little prince. So there is no reason to act as if there is. _

Sebastian did not want to justify this mini lecture with a response. No, even now, his mind was turning, turning away from those bitter complaints—working as fast and furiously as the stomach that continued to groan, rumbling in protest beneath his palm. But the harder he tried, the harder it was not to acknowledge the truth: "If things were 'fair,' we would not feel this hunger," he murmured, downcast eyes lingering upon his own stomach. Atop the polished buttons of his swallowtail coat, his fingers curled into a fist. "If things were fair, that pain would not feel more acute _now _than before."

_Oh? Are you in pain? _The bird did not bother masking his blatant good humor, shuffling from one scaly foot to the other. Head tipped far to the right, it cawed aloud as it regarded its distant companion. When Sebastian's expression mirrored his claim, the creature cackled again. _Delightful! _it then crowed, ruffling its folded appendages. _Is that why you are crying? _

Sebastian froze in an instant; the question hit him with the abruptness of blow to the face. "…I beg your pardon?" he scoffed, eyes widening in utter disbelief. "How dare you even _suggest_…!"

But as he spun around to face the second demon, he could not help but notice the heated droplets that the motion coaxed from his chin; the sticky warmth that congealed in the corners of his mouth, flavoring his bloodied lips with the brackish taste of saline. Visibly startled, the younger devil couldn't keep from lifting his remaining hand to the round of his cheek, gingerly touching the liquid that he found there. The tiny, salty-glass beads that pearled atop his fingertips were familiar only in an exotic way— like something he'd seen pictures of, but had never personally experienced. As he marveled over the bizarre bodily excrement, he couldn't help but notice other symptoms: a bitter ache in the back of his throat, as if his esophagus might close completely; a weary sting behind his moistened eyeballs, making them feel (paradoxically) dry. He could only assume that the three reactions were indications of the same sickness… but what? Frustration from lack of fulfillment? Irritation at the mocking of his spectator? Anger, perhaps? Why was it that humans cried, again? Oh, yes… Maybe—

Just maybe—

Maybe this was…

"…I believe this may be 'sorrow,'" Sebastian whispered to himself, the realization little more than a breath of pure astonishment. With the same moistened fingers he'd used to touch his tears, he tentatively poked at his heart-place; now that he concentrated, he noticed that the emptiness in his middle did not stop at his belly. The reason the suffering was so much more intense now was that it had spread: it was not only in his stomach, but also above it. His whole chest _ached _with it. His tear ducts—merely for show until that moment— had apparently reacted to it, and the fluids concealed within leaked all the faster as his agony grew more and more pronounced. "Yes. I do believe that I am feeling intense grief over something."

It was Baalberith's turn to react with acerbic skepticism now, jeering noisily from his roost high above. _Sorrow? Grief? _he repeated, disgust dripping from each syllable like crystalline pearls dripped from Sebastian's cheeks._ Do not even joke about such idiocy! We devils are not so weak-spirited and pathetic; only humans and the Enemy feel such sickening emotions! We do not lament! We do not regret! _

Yet, even as he spoke, Sebastian was shaking his head. His own features were startled, yes—lingering traces of doubt and distaste helped to sculpt the purse of his lips, the folds of his brow. "But I do," he nevertheless insisted, louder now, more assuredly, though the rivulets continued to rage and flow. He could hardly believe a body was capable of retaining so much water. "I _do_. I regret. It was not time for him to die. I _told_ him as much," he added, and in that moment the gravity of the realization struck him; he couldn't believe that it had taken so long to fully comprehend the source of his misery. "…that's just it, then," Sebastian murmured, more to himself than to the demon beyond. "It was not his time."

_Do you _honestly_ believe that is the problem? _the crow scathingly chided, utter revulsion in the rebuke. In recent minutes the bird had become an antsy creature: it looked very much as if it wanted to attack the devil it'd caught in its steely sight, but could not bring itself to do so. There was a hierarchy to consider, after all—and the orders he'd been given. _A soul is a soul, little prince. Had you corrupted him in subtle ways, swifter ways, you may yet have enjoyed the nectar of that fruit. But you were greedy—_

"Is Avarice not one of our virtues?"

_You broke a _law_, a law that we implored you to heed, and now you are paying the price, _Baalberith corrected. If a bird could scowl, his puppet was certainly doing so. _Do not worsen your own sentence by acting like this. Come back with me. Learn to cope with the anguish. However bad it may be, it cannot possibly be worse than the horror of utter annihilation. _

For a moment, the mind-crushing weight of the threat hung between the unusual pair, dangling as if on strands of spider silk. In the warning's wake, Sebastian fell momentarily quiet; for a short-lived spell, the crow was stupid enough to believe that the younger devil might actually be making a wise decision. (Another reason Sebastian had rarely put stock in his predictions.) But then the 'little prince' opened his mouth, and his pronouncement left the other hissing ferociously.

"I do not think you understand," Sebastian murmured, palm slipping from his torso to find his outer thigh. He offered his avian companion a close-lipped smile. "Is it not obvious? I am no longer the devil I'd been—I have _already_ been utterly annihilated." The confession seemed to fortify his newfound resolve; when Sebastian opened his lightly-closed eyes, they shone with a dimmed (but still-leaping) spark of life. "Why should I learn to cope with distress when I could instead remedy it?"

A furious squawk, grating and shrill; rearing backwards upon its reptilian toes, the crow beat its wings in inimitable rage. _You cannot correct a mistake by making a larger one! _Baalberith roared, the reproof comprised of equal parts contempt and derision._ Accept the inevitable, Malphas. Do not act a fool! You cannot save yourself, and you cannot save him!_

Sebastian smirked, inclining his head in parody of his companion. "Oh?" he then lightly returned, as if in acceptance of a challenge. Laughter bubbled beneath his skin; dark amusement curled the corners of his mouth. Once more, the demon pressed his remaining hand to his breast, and in so doing looked more like himself than he had in quite a while. "I beg to disagree," he respectfully retorted, the sultry chide sautéed in tones of sweet poison. "After all, how could I call myself a servant of Phantomhive if I couldn't do something as simple as revive my young master?"

—_abmeterribilissimoipsefffffff_

**XXX**


	3. Duo

**Disclaimer: **Ownership? Not I.

**Author's Note: **I'm starting to feel somewhat bipolar, jumping from this to "Bicentennial" and back… XD;

**Warnings: **SebaCiel. Ignores season II (mostly). Death, destruction, depravity. Fail editing. OCs. Religious themes.

**XXX**

**X**

**XXX**

_Kshtfffffffff_—

He looked up at me, looked up at me with those blue, blue eyes that I was quickly learning to love and loathe. Even if I'd felt the need, I would not have allowed myself to flinch under that steely stare; I was not as weak as those mortal fools and cowardly dogs that quaked when they saw my master come near. My domestication, as he was fully aware, was superficial; I was not a tamed animal. I was a pawn, a knight, a token piece, perhaps—but unlike his other playthings, I was made of marble, not flesh and bone, wood or soap stone. And he knew that.

But he loved to try and break me, anyway.

It was a game for him, I think: an experiment. How long before I lost my temper? How long before I fought my leash? How long before I turned my fangs upon him? How long before I remembered shame?

I did little more than blink when the first cake hit me, clouds of powdered sugar clinging to my cheeks like ladies' makeup. It tasted like an overused sponge, my lord decreed. Next I endured a shower of syrup, off-pink and sickeningly saccharine; had I, in my inherent idiocy, used wax cherries in that pie? And so on and so forth, the insults clockwork as much as any other segment of our schedule: that whipped cream would have served better as shaving cream, I could use those cookies as wheels for Funtom toy trains, etcetera, etcetera. Further abuse resulted when I served chilled violet pudding, persisted with the making of a treacle tart, and culminated in a somewhat epic climax when I presented the child with a mixed berry parfait—tiny marble raspberries strewn all about the dining hall, glistening strawberry sauces streaked across fine art and white cloth, high brows and button noses.

Before either of us had fully realized it, a month had passed by.

"For elevens today I have prepared a sweet milk tea to compliment your chocolate gâteau," I announced calmly, bending at the waist to pour my master a steaming cup of the sugary swill. Of all the scents and flavors cloistered in this room, only his was bearable, let alone desirable; the beautiful dessert I served him was, to me, of little more culinary interest than the worm infested dirt I'd used to make it. "I do hope it is to my lord's taste."

The boy—ever the observant onlooker—drummed his manicured nails against the wooden tabletop as I worked, gazing at me from his upholstered throne without comment or (as of then) critique. He drank in the sight of his Wedgewood and silver, breathing in reverence as evanescent coils of steam tickled his nostrils. The very tips of his fingers touched the smoldering porcelain of the flower-printed china; for the briefest of instants, he looked very tired.

Then his cobalt stare hardened—a perfect imitation of the gems they so resembled. "In all this time, I must admit," my young master announced rather bitterly, "the only inhuman thing about you has been your extraordinary reserve of patience."

I did not respond with either word or expression. I merely stood by his side, bedecked in equal parts blackened wool and stoicism. This was before I had decided on a personality, I believe; I had not yet realized that the strange creature before me had no desire to see more masks. He had contracted a demon, and that was what he wanted. I wonder if I lived up to those expectations.

"How is it," the boy posed lightly, with a nonchalant gesture of his glimmering dessert fork,"that you have mastered the art of looking and acting so very human?" He poked at a decorative orange rind that I'd positioned atop the cake; the vibrantly colored ringlet contrasted garishly with the moist darkness of the pastry. I thought of chastising him for playing with his food. I decided I had no right to judge.

"I have spent many millennia carefully observing the mortal population, young master," I explained, tone curt in its politeness. I did not turn to face him; sans my lips, my body did not move. "When I first stepped onto this troubled rock, even the Bible was but a distant dream. I have watched men, women, _civilizations_ rise, fall, and crumble into dust. But it did not take me nearly that long to realize that, in order to obtain my desires, it was easier to… appeal to humans on their level, as it were. In appearance and mannerisms, at the very least."

"Hmm," the petite earl hummed, musing on my explanation. He slipped the tines of his utensil into his mouth, sucking thoughtfully on the ends of those filed tips; tinny clatters resounded from that velvet cavern— the sound of metal on teeth. "Tell me, Sebastian… What do you know of Jericho?"

I admit, the question caught me rather off-guard. Though I did not ask for clarification (there was no way I could have misunderstood), the confusion I felt was evident in my reply, as well as in the sidelong glance I could not help but shoot the boy. "I was there to watch the walls fall, my lord," I confessed, remembering. "I was there to hear the Israelites scream and see the fire rage and smell the blood as it washed the war-torn streets anew." It was a pleasure that most mortals failed to understand. I wondered, however, about this master…

"It must have been quite a show," my young lord murmured in reverence, visible eye half-lidded in dream. He lifted the fork from his lips and twisted it between three bent fingers; my distorted reflection appeared in the disrupted bowl beneath the tines. "But I wonder… What will your ram's horn be, devil?"

My face grew lax in bewilderment. Before I'd realized it, I'd turned a fraction to better face my tamer. "My lord?" The query was obvious.

"Protective walls never stand forever," the boy returned dully, sounding somewhat bored, now. With a sudden horizontal sweep, he cleanly severed the tip of his cake from the rest of the slice; all the grace and efficiency of an executioner, that one. "The external ones are weak, but the internal ones are weaker still. All the screaming and battering of those forces beyond will eventually wear your defenses down to nothingness… With all that you've endured, all the souls that you've let inside, I'd think the only thing you'd be waiting for is the final blow of the ram's horn. Then your walls will topple and you will burn."

For a moment, I wondered if this was meant to be a threat. But the thought was fleeting; his voice held no malevolence and his movements no adrenaline-fueled tension. He spoke instead as one of the experienced, callous in his certainty. And in the wake of that solemnity, I couldn't swallow back my chuckle.

"With all due respect, young master," I corrected in amusement, my eyes as bright with mirth as his were lackluster with somberness, "I believe, in your assumption, you have forgotten one rather crucial factor." At the gentle chastisement, it was he who graced me with a glance; I, in turn, shared with him the first glimmer of the otherworldly that he had seen since That Day. In the faceted vermillion of my irises, his sober features were reflected back upon him in hues of rose and scarlet. "I am a demon, not a weak-spirited human. The walls that separate my kind from yours are far studier than the brick and mortar on which you have based your comparison. There is no way 'in,' as it were. No ram's horn to tear my defenses down."

The words were weighty with truth; the air was heavy with it… if but for a minute. Then the child arched a single eyebrow—the one above his leather patch. "No?" he questioned lightly, and within my core his Power seared. Like a blazing coal where my heart should have been, with flames that leapt (as I did) at every fleeting whim and command. My tamer's attention again fell to his plate. "You wear the mask of humanity so well," he complimented quietly. But it wasn't a compliment. Not really. "Do you ever wonder if, one day, that mask will cease to fall? It happens quite frequently to us 'weak spirited' mortals. I should think that beings like demons, who fell from grace just like we humans, would be equally susceptible. After all, you are what you act…"

With muted vigor, the child speared the severed bite of cake with his fork, lifting the sweet to his mouth. I swallowed dryly, for the first time feeling the faintest pricklings of unease tickle at the edges of my essence. The fabric of what I was felt, however slightly, as if it might be… fraying. As if a corner of my being had started to unravel, its protective knots turned to dust in the wake of the ember in my chest.

How interesting.

"If you are what you act," I asked a moment later, the barest beginnings of a smirk toying with my lips and eyes, "what does that make _you_, my lord?"

My contractor's only response was a leer. _And as he leered, I lifted him atop the mahogany table—just another delicacy in a five-course meal—and with his rump upon a plate pushed him backwards and ravished him, fingers tangling and tongues battling and a bitty waist thrusting up, up, up, wanton whines spilling from a mouth that he couldn't keep closed. His ruffled sleeve dragged through a tureen of beef gravy; my knee smeared mashed potatoes across the rumpled linens. And his eyes, his eyes, were so deep and beautiful and opulently blue— so much so that they had once reminded me of someone else. But by then I didn't care, couldn't be bothered to remember who or what that 'other' was, because all that mattered was this morsel—this meal, this all-consuming hunger— and the sounds that he made: pants and gasps, grunts and moans, and a final scream that resonated like the bellow of a horn. _

"My my," the boy commented coolly, setting aside his used fork and reaching instead for his tea. Behind the fanned curl of coal-gray lashes, those blue, blue eyes gleamed with devious amusement—sharp and biting as the talon of a waning pupil. "Today's dessert was almost palatable."

**XXX**

**Diligo Victum Nusquam**

_Duo_

**XXX**

The trouble with souls was that they needed a body.

Highly volatile under the best of circumstances (death, of course, being a prime example), they were in rare instances of hatred and confusion able to manifest themselves in a humanoid form, but no matter the strength of their grudge, they eventually lost their power; Sebastian could think of two ghosts in particular to whom that description applied. However, his master had surrendered his life willingly, his vengeance achieved. Worse still, his servant had snacked and supped upon that severed soul until all of its energy had been siphoned away; it hadn't the strength left to maintain a facsimile of a form, let alone the might necessary to sustain itself as a spirit. Had the butler even taken one bite less, he might have been able to garner the boy a fashionable substitute of a body— ripped the life force from any pretty mortal and carefully stitched the two together. But no… his charge was damaged, broken, and feeble. In this state, any such experimentation would certainly end badly; the chances that the soul would reject the foreign form were too high, and Ciel was too weak for the devil to take such a risk. However spoiled and scratched it inexorably was at this point, what Sebastian needed was the soul's original container. If Ciel's soul and body were re-conjoined, they would no doubt assist one another in performing a sort of full-system restoration… provided Sebastian could find some way to jump-start the process.

But that was a concern for later. His first task was actually _finding _his master's body.

Ciel had been shot. Ciel had been dropped. But the force that drove the final nail into the coffin had been the Thames. Into its icy hand the boy had plummeted; within its cloying embrace had he drowned. The ice-chilled water of the London spring had permeated his wounds, his mouth, his lungs… and because he had not resisted its pervasive hold, the weary earl had been smothered by it. Even before Sebastian could reach him, the river had claimed its prize; the devil found him, white as bone, with his booted feet trapped in the mire—skeletal arms waving along to the dance of the tide-tossed seaweed. Just another piece of pollution, now: a morbid scarecrow to frighten the fish from the nearby docks.

And Sebastian had not cared.

_It is not time for you to die. _

It had not been time for him to die, but there was no deadline on surrender; he had given up, and there was no helping that. The demon had taken one look at his master, touched his face, and pulled from his slackened mouth the light that was his reward. The body he had no use for, so he left it on the seafloor; it was the soul alone that he spirited to the Isle, for a corpse could not speak and the soul would have been hindered and bogged down by a bullet-riddled, already-deceased vessel.

It had all seemed so sensible at the time.

But that was then and this was now, and now Sebastian was a sodden mess upon the shoreline due to his own shortsightedness. Demons didn't need to breathe, but he was panting nonetheless; old habits die hard, and he wasn't much thinking about how silly it was to perpetuate this mortal façade when there was no one around to care. Instead, his glaring eyes were trained upon the undulating surface of the water, black as molasses and nearly as oily and thick. In the pre-dawn darkness, it almost looked as if the night had liquidized and begun lapping at the sand; perhaps because of this, it felt as if his master's body had been swallowed up by an impenetrable abyss.

Where had he _gone_?

Though time flowed differently on opposite sides of the gate, no more than three days should have passed in the human realm. Though _he'd _always thought that the boy looked a tasty treat, the demon somehow doubted that London's river life would have agreed so exuberantly that not even a skeleton or shoe would remain. There was, quite simply, not a single trace of Ciel Phantomhive at the bottom of the Thames… Save, perhaps, for the delicate indentation of where his feet had once been stuck in the sludge. In case the waves had swept him free, Sebastian had prowled the area beneath the surface—had wandered to the estuaries and back again, searching all the while. Not a hair, not a ribbon. The ringing green silence of the world below was just as devoid of the earl's presence as the world above, and it was a fact that thoroughly frustrated the devil.

It made no sense. What had happened to his body? Surely in the mess and confusion of the fire, no one would have yet had the time to notice the missing (and generally disliked) nobleman. And even if they had, who would have thought to look beneath the bridge? The humans did not have the capacity, mentally or physically, to drag a bloated cadaver out of the darkness in which it was wedged, but if not them, then who? Who else would have known that Ciel Phantomhive had died? Who else would have cared? Who else would have… wanted the body…

Sebastian's heaving breaths fell short, fell silent, then fell away entirely as realization struck him— a truth so wholly obvious that he couldn't believe he'd squandered his time wandering the beach. There was, of course, a group of creatures who fit that description perfectly, and he even knew where to find one. No reason to dally, then; with a scattering of seawater, the demon pushed himself to his feet and bounded into the shadows, gaunt of face and eyes full of obstinate resolve. The wind ripped through his soggy garments, freezing the already frosty liquid to the skin it found beneath. If the discomforting sensation registered in Sebastian's mind, he either chose not to take notice of it, or he did not care. He maintained his unearthly speed, leaping through the ashen debris and inferno-gutted rubble that had once been familiar streets and storefronts. Though the conflagration had long-since died and there was no moon above, the devil could still see his goal with perfect clarity: a building untouched by smoke or blaze or any other pestilence, save for its markedly unusual resident and the miscellaneous parts of his guests. Features set, Sebastian did not bother with such niceties as slowing down or knocking on the door; as far as he was concerned, the boy in question was still his property. He was only looking to take back that which had been stolenadsnff_ffffffffffffffffff—_

—_ffffffff_ffadjewfijand they did not even think to pause until the room was a war-torn mess, flasks and shattered vials strewn across the frigid stone floor. Like fallen soldiers, the ruined glasses oozed syrups and goos in rainbow shades; their brittle shells were soon pounded into stardust beneath four sets of tromping feet. The cosseted space was filling with the nauseating fumes of spilt formaldehyde and rock salt, overwhelming in its pungency. Three upturned coffins had been reduced to splinters of wood; three more had been broken into planks and building blocks. But the seventh, positioned in the center of the crowded room, remained virtually undisturbed; Sebastian had only just prized the lid from the casket when he'd heard something slicing through sheets of still air, on a collision course with his skull. Had it been any other establishment, he likely would have ignored the useless weapon and the twinge of pain that would have accompanied such an attack. However, he had not forgotten the real identity of the man who ran this morgue… That was the reason he was here, after all.

Sebastian not been surprised, then, to turn around and find that he'd been attacked by a supercilious, suit-clad shinigami: one with eyes like a hawk and a metal beak to match. With cold precision, William T. Spears had removed the head of his Scythe from the shop's back wall, where it had punched a rather large hole when the devil had ducked to avoid it. Rude creature. No words or snarky greetings were exchanged; neither Will nor Sebastian had any wish to waste time, right then. Besides, it was rather apparent what was happening. There was no need for words, really.

At least, not until the Undertaker himself appeared a few heartbeats later, cackling as he observed the damage the two were wrecking on his shop. And behind him came Grell, rubbing rheum from his eyes, only to trill in delight upon noticing just who it was that Will was whole-heartedly attempting to crucify beside the windows. Sebastian dodged the thrust of the modified grabbers, then leapt protectively atop the final coffin, shielding it from falling chunks of brick and the threat of William's wrath. But as the shaft of the Scythe came barreling down, termination unavoidable and imminent, something happened.

Will froze. Sebastian blinked. Even Grell reeled himself in, quieting the decrees that no one was listening to, anyway—monologues about how the pair should not fight for his love, because he would freely give it to them both.

The other three fell silent, because Undertaker was laughing. Bent at the waist as if he'd just heard the most delightful knee-slapper, the revered death god guffawed and snickered for all he was worth, corpse-white smile slit so wide it was a wonder that his face hadn't split clean in two.

"…might I inquire as to what you find so hilarious, sir?" William bit out from behind grit teeth, clearly peeved at having been interrupted during his moment of victory. Sebastian, for his part, seized the opportunity presented to him and moved an inch away to safety, lugging Ciel's casket along for the ride. As he did so, Undertaker crowed _harder_, so utterly tickled that a string of saliva trickled down his chin—he simply couldn't find the breath to swallow it down.

"Mr. Butler!" the white-locked reaper gasped and giggled, and after another moment of mystification on the others' parts (even Sebastian and Will exchanged bewildered glances) the mortician calmed enough to formulate a sentence. Albeit a sentence punctuated by chortles. "Oh, Mr. Butler, how silly you are! Why do you risk your life to guard a cadaver?"

In way of answer, Sebastian offered nothing, instead focusing on frowning and keeping his remaining arm wrapped protectively around the half-opened coffin. Through the gloom beneath the lid, the faintest glint of hoary hair could be seen—soft and clean in preparation for embalmment. But though the devil did not seem overly alarmed or embarrassed by the Undertaker's query, the phrasing of the question _did_ strike a chord with Will. As the strange reality of the words set in, his turbulent temper faded to an expression of general distaste; he even went so far as to retract his Scythe, his scowl tainted mainly by puzzlement.

"…why _are _you here, demon?" the staid reaper demanded, and as common sense returned—so hastily stuffed away in the heat of battle—his feelings of perplexity seemed to intensify. "You succeeded in stealing this human's soul. Your kind has no need of bodies. By all rights you should already be back in Hell, relishing your victory and full stomach while they last." He sneered in disgust as he spoke, and his contempt was evident even through the flatness of his condescending drawl. "So why risk death by visiting this shop?"

"He must have heard that I was lodging here as we helped clean up London!" Grell sang, shimmying around in his rather provocative red nightie. And yet, despite his jovial tone, his eyes remained distant and similarly bemused; he continued to keep a careful distance between himself and the demon, ducking behind Undertaker, dancing in place. "But Sebastian-darling, what happened to your arm? That mean ol' Will didn't cut it off, did he? I thought we agreed that only _I _would get to do something so wonderfully brutal to you~"

After a time, the three reapers fell into a hush, their curiosities and pestering dying away when they realized that Sebastian would not be bothered to speak over them. But even then, the devil hesitated, as if wondering if he might still be able to grab his master and run. It was not likely; suicidal, probably. In his current state (battle damaged, hungry, still drenched and missing one limb), he'd be lucky if he managed to grab Ciel before being skewered, let alone make it to the door or window. In the end, his only option seemed obvious; he heaved a heavy sigh and stood, surrendering himself to it.

"Would you like to form a Contract with me?"

—_abmeterribilissimoipsefffff_

**XXX**


	4. Tria

**Disclaimer: **Nada.

**Author's Note: **I feel like I should have something intelligent or witty to say here, but I'm too tired to think of anything appropriate.

**Warnings: **SebaCiel. Ignores season II (mostly). Death, destruction, depravity. Religious themes. Fail editing, I'm sure. Like usual, haha.

**XXX**

**X**

**XXX**

_Kshtfffffffffff_—

"For someone who so enjoys chaos, death, and destruction, you can be surprisingly gentle when you want to be."

From somewhere behind my back, Grell responded with a demure giggle; the sound of it resonated through the fingertips he'd pressed tenderly against my shoulder. "It's my mothering instinct," he explained when the laughter died. Still, the smile on his face remained in his tone. "All women are born with it."

As he spoke, the needle dipped once more into my flesh: stitch number four hundred and thirty eight and counting, and each new loop tingled with the same antiseptic bite as the first. The gleaming golden thread that the death god used to sew me back together was foreign to me; it was with noted surprise that I watched the sunny string melt into the sallow rot of my deadened arm, only to turn the pallid flesh a healthy shade of pink again. Deep within, I could feel vessels and tubers reconnecting themselves, nerve endings reattaching to shoot electric sparks of pain down my spine. It felt like _life_.

"I realized that the grim reapers had a number of impressive tools at their disposal," I commented lightly, unabashedly entranced by the otherworldly glow that radiated from the ethereal filament. "However, I must admit that I never anticipated that you would possess something as useful as this. We devils are not nearly so spoiled by circumstance."

For the first time since he set about this self-appointed task, Grell's hands hesitated; when I careened my neck slightly to see what had made him pause, I caught the tail end of a frown.

"Actually… this isn't a reaper tool," the redhead confessed, casting the tiny spool of magical thread a guilty glance. As it had for the past hour or so, it sat, like we did, atop the death god's sleep-mussed cot, its warm radiance assisting the candles that kept our makeshift infirmary well-lit. "It's one that the angels use. We deal in death, and they in life, blah blah blah. But before you ask, _no_, I didn't steal it off of Ash and Angel," Grell tacked on defensively, not that I'd have given a damn if he'd nicked it. In fact, I might have praised him for it. "I got it as a gift the last time I went Above. Will sent me to do some maintenance work, you know, delivering souls to Heaven and all of that mundane poppycock… and I fell into talking with this absolutely _breathtaking _young chap."

I could hear the girlish raving before it began and responded with an internal curse. Wonderful. If Grell got going, I'd likely be stuck here with my arm half-affixed for the remainder of the foreseeable future. It was likely that my ears would start bleeding, too. But by the same token, I didn't really have much choice in the matter: if I wanted the rest of my stitches, I'd have to endure the reaper's incessant caterwauling. After all, if I injured him, he might not be physically capable of finishing, and if I hurt his feelings, he'd pout and refuse to help on principle. With no other options available to me, I merely rolled my eyes as Grell squealed. Still, I supposed I had to give the god a bit of credit: he'd managed to suppress his exuberant tendencies for an entire sixty minutes. That was more than I would have thought possible, particularly when I was not wearing a shirt. "You wouldn't _believe _how stunning this dapper lad was, Sebastian-darling. I mean, not to make you jealous or anything, but he had the most impressiveabs that I have ever seen. They were so _defined! _It was almost surreal, to be honest. Normally, I'm not all that into the wrap-look, you know? I prefer a man whose taste in fashion is a bit more up to date. Posh and modern. Like yours. But I would make an exception for _this _winged cupid, oh yes. Would it be too trite to call him heavenly? Oh, and his _eyes. _He had the most _divine_ blue eyes."

I didn't need to look to know that Grell was blushing; I could feel its warmth against my back, obvious as sunshine. Similarly, I'm sure that Grell would have been able to feel my spine stiffen even if he hadn't had his palms pressed flush to it— would have heard the tendons and ligaments tauten from across the room, chaffing beneath my skin.

"Hm? Is something wrong, Sebastian-darling?" the reaper cooed, laying his second hand atop the round of my undamaged shoulder. "You got really tense all of a sudden. Does it hurt somewhere? Would you like for me to give you a massage? You know I will~"

For once, I did not rise to the bait. "…did you happen to ask this angel his name?" I inquired evenly, as if it hardly mattered either way. And it didn't. Because I knew.

"Um…" Grell pondered over my question for a moment, probably batting his fake eyelashes as he did so. I am sure he assumed his pouted bottom lip and furrowed brow were equally endearing. "I believe I did… oh, yes! Yes, I remember, it was Uriel. Uriel and Ariel." Sounding very proud of himself—as well as somewhat flattered by my interest in his story—the death god shared a little more. "Actually, it's funny that you should ask. Because you know, I don't just tell you about the other men in my life. I'm a good girl, and ruthlessly honest—so I tell those other men about my Sebastian-darling, too. And wouldn't you know it, Uriel asked about you, as well! I guess you each wanted to know what your competition is like, hmm?" Grell trilled, humming happily to himself as he returned to his stitching. I didn't feel the needlepoint anymore, or the burning ache of reconfigured innards. My humerus, already popped back into its ball-joint socket, formulated new cartilage and connective tissues in a process that should have been excruciating. I barely flinched. "Anyway, after I raved about you for a while, he gave me this thread as a present. Good thing, too. Without it, we wouldn't have been able to patch up you or the brat. Though I must admit, I don't know how well it will work on a _body _that's already dead… but it can't hurt to try, right? Ha~" He tittered once more, bubbly and feminine. "Fortune was on our side, it seems. But of course, you can't disregard the part that _I _played. You're lucky I'm such a charmer, aren't you, Sebastian-darling? Aren't you?"

And I was so distracted by my thoughts, I agreed with him.

**XXX**

**Diligo Victum Nusquam**

_Tria_

**XXX**

For a moment, the invitation hung—like motes of silvery dust—in the darkness of the cobwebbed lobby. No one spoke, no one moved… In the silence, William's face morphed into an expression of disbelief so grotesque, it was almost comical. His cheeks flared, his eyes flashed; in half an instant, the Death Scythe was again at Sebastian's throat, but the stoic demon did not balk or budge. Instead, he continued to stand guard before the coffin, remaining hand extended in a gesture of enticement. He held that position, waiting patiently for the reaper to find the right combination of words to fully (and colorfully) express the utter loathing and rancid disgust that bubbled at the very base of his being— the repulsion he felt for the slimy creature who had _dared _to even _suggest _something so presumptuous, so vile. _Everyone _knew better than to make a deal with a devil. And in Will's surety of that knowledge, he overlooked a rather crucial detail. Namely, what the aforementioned deal entailed. It was a mistake, however, that the others did not share in. Even as the young one seethed, Undertaker gave an appreciative cackle and settled himself atop one of the few salvageable crates. His eyes, covered as they were, were unreadable… but his lips had formed a smile of purest amusement, and with that amusement came interest. He did so hate to see a good time end; whatever might Sebastian suggest to make the fun last?

"A Contract, you say? With a demon like you?" The mortician chuckled behind his sleeve; the force of it made his chain of memorial lockets chime and sing. "A dangerous game, to be certain. But those are the best kinds of games, don't you think? Whatever are the stakes? Surely our old souls are too gristly for a gourmet like yourself…"

The Undertaker's noisy mirth, once seemingly perpetual, came to an end with a final, toothy grin. The corners of his mouth disappeared behind his bangs, much like most of his face; Sebastian turned his attention from the still-glowering Will to the eldest reaper, his expression as flat as the god's was animated.

"I am not looking to claim a soul," the demon intoned, ignoring the scoff of skepticism that William spat between pursed lips. "Rather, I am going to surrender one to you."

"We have no need of your filthy spirit," Will retorted bitterly, and behind the forever-grinning Undertaker Grell was nodding his assent. In an attempt to both pacify and assist, the redhead was quick to add: "You know that the souls of the otherworldly are a different matter entirely, Sebastian-darling. Pluto was dealt with by other authorities. Ash and Angela weren't our concern, either. We only deal with mortal souls."

"I am aware," Sebastian assured, and no matter how close the serrated claws of William's Scythe came to caressing his throat, he did not move. "It was not _my_ soul to which I was referring." He paused for the inevitable falter of bemusement, maintaining cool composure as he watched the pieces connect in three different minds. A sudden glint of understanding; the weapon that had been trained upon his face fell a fraction in shock, but remained pointed at his heart. "Yes, I have consumed Ciel Phantomhive's soul," the devil confessed, sensing the question. "But I have not yet digested it. You know as well as I do that a soul such as his would not have survived on its own outside of a body, once it had been subjected to my… special brand of care. So it is inside of me, for the moment, but I will purge it from my system once I have managed to secure his body."

A low whistle, tinged in tones of astonished admiration. "A body for a soul? Is that what you are asking for, Mr. Butler?" Undertaker smirked again, and though he did not so much as snicker, never had there been such delight in his voice. "To think I'd live to see the day when a demon would make such a request..."

"Of course, I am rather possessive of that soul; I would not give it to you straight away," Sebastian clarified, just in case the others did not fully understand his intentions. He was the devil in this bargain, but he would not have put it past William to try and undermine any agreement fostered between them. "Rather, I would give you my word that, when my young master's time _truly _came, I would step aside and allow you to reap him as you saw fit—another record to be collected and catalogued for your precious library."

Once again, Sebastian let the offer hang, titillating and generous, in the space between the unusual foursome—allowed it to fester and grow in the minds of the business-oriented creatures. It would make their jobs so much easier if the butler would simply bow out of their way; one more book for their records, and all in exchange for a body that they had no use for.

Undertaker made a show of considering the proposal, tapping his lengthy talons to the plump of his chapped bottom lip. Beneath his touch, that lip continued to warp and twist— much like that bloody I-beam, dangling above the mire of London. Likewise, Sebastian found his own impassive expression had begun to morph, taking on the form of a deeply-seated frown; said scowl deepened further and further the longer he stared at his companion's worming leer. The ever-growing sneer felt, in some ways, like the punch-line to an unheard joke, and it was starting to grate upon his already-worn nerves.

"…yes?" the devil pressed, for he could see that the reaper was simply _bursting _to tell him something. All he was waiting for was a proper poke to squeeze the words out of him. Sebastian chose his well, apparently.

"You say that we could take his soul when his lordship's time 'truly came,'" Undertaker echoed, raspy voice wheezy with wisps of suppressed hilarity. "But Mr. Butler, I am afraid that his time already 'truly' came. I told him so myself."

Something inside of the devil froze. How odd; he hadn't fully realized he _had _a heart until it stopped.

"He was written in my logs, too," Grell added ruefully, shrugging in some kind of empathetic apology. As if to emphasize this, he waved his newly-materialized notebook: paper marks and memos fluttered as he did so, stuck between parchment pages. "Just 'cause he was young, doesn't necessarily mean he had time to spare. I mean, some kiddies never even get to be _born_. The brat was lucky he got thirteen years."

"Especially since he was meant to have died at _ten_," William tacked on, as cold and smooth as the blades of his weapon. "However, you thought it your right to interfere with that ordinance. And due directly to your actions, London has been reduced to a matchbox of cinders." Beneath the surface of the accusation, Sebastian could hear the growl of feral frustration; the reaper's irritation, as always, was no doubt genuine. But behind his golden eyes, the demon almost _see _the gears turning, the wheels grinding. For all of its flaws, Sebastian knew that his idea was not without merit; he might just have to agree to whatever exploitable opportunities the others decided to find in it.

A tense thirty seconds passed without breath or movement. Their stares entwined; the shadows pulsated. Then, with uncharacteristic frankness, William allowed himself the luxury of a heavy sigh… either that, or one escaped noisily though his nose without his permission. Regardless, the sound changed the mood, and withaisdfff_ffffffff_—

—_fffff_fffadewdo you know in what manner Ciel Phantomhive was meant to have perished, demon?" Will drawled apathetically, and though Sebastian remained visibly wary, he did not stop the reaper from reaching down into the opened casket and lifting his master out. Like the china doll he'd always resembled, the child's porcelain limbs hung heavily, weighing down his delicate shoulders and swaying in time to the god's efficient footsteps. His head craned backwards against William's forearm, exposing the full of his pale, pale neck; beneath that papery flesh, no veins throbbed or blood rushed. Like the rest of his body, it may as well have been carved from snow and marble.

Eyes still trained unblinkingly upon the reaper, William's general aloofness was matched only by Sebastian's own. "I am certain I do not," the demon returned politely, inclining his head in a mock bow. Then he sucked a hiss through clamped incisors, irises flashing crimson when the other was (in his opinion) just a fraction too rough with his unconscious charge— allowing the back of his hand to smack against an upturned carton of ethanol. "Enlighten me."

William scowled. "You were supposed to have killed him."

"…pardon?" Despite his desire for constant vigilance, Sebastian was unable to keep from blinking in alarm.

"You were supposed to have killed him," Will repeated brusquely, setting Ciel's limp cadaver atop the remains of the mortuary table. Though a sizable chunk of wood had fissured and fallen from the lacquered surface as a result of their fight, the boy had always been a tiny thing; there was plenty of room for him to lie, despite the notable property damages. "According to our reports from Above, you were to have fulfilled his wish for vengeance by killing the occultists present, and in doing so fooled him into thinking that he'd been successful in his quest for revenge. You were never to have implied that there might have been a mastermind. You were never even to have let him _think_ it. Your covenant was to have been over before it'd even officially begun." With a flick of his wrist, the reaper fashioned a modesty cloth out of a handkerchief he'd had hidden up his cuff. As the fabric fluttered into place, William shot the devil an arctic glance from over his stiffened shoulder. His nostrils flared in distaste. "But you did not do that, demon. And that, I believe, is the root of all our problems."

Sebastian listened to this revelation without betraying his thoughts, maintaining a mask of perfect comportment as the death god chided and glared. But when Will paused for breath, the demon could contain himself no longer. Face contorting into an expression of sardonic incredulity, Sebastian huffed a chortle and arched a slender brow. "Your dissatisfaction lies not in my consuming of his soul, then," he paraphrased dryly, "but in the fact that I _took_ _too long _to do so?"

"Perhaps it is a difficult concept for one such as you, who Fell due to his utter disregard for set rules," Will callously retorted, smoothing gauzy bangs from sightless sapphire eyes. (Sebastian snarled at the sight—a sonorous sound that resonated from somewhere deeper than human lungs. He wasted no time in joining William at the table, resuming his guard on Ciel's empty right.) "But, quite simply, you did not do as you were supposed to. In your defense—" the words seemed to pain him— "you are not the only one who has done so. As we have seen, there are angels who stray from their path… Reapers who reject their work…"

"Ow, Will! Darling, if you want a lock of my hair, you need only ask! You don't have to _yank_—!"

"It is only natural, I imagine, that a demon might fall into folly, as well. In fact," William droned, readjusting his spectacles with the very tip of a leather-gloved finger. "I would surmise that they do it quite often. Far more often than any other eternal being, due in great part to their intrinsic nature."

For half an instant, Sebastian considered being insulted. He thought about correcting this rather offensive overgeneralization; he mused over telling the reaper about some of the demon's laws, and how the Powers That Be residing Above were not the only ones annoyed with him.

But that was none of William's business, so the devil said nothing.

The reaper, on the other hand, continued speaking.

"Demons live in the realm Below, the angels preside over the realm Above, and we reapers live in the purgatory of the Middle realm, playing mediator between the two dualistic entities that preside over us all," he reminded—rambled, really— as Sebastian nodded vaguely to show that he was listening. Undertaker seemed enraptured (at least, his giggles were suggestive of attention), and Grell, of course, would happily watch anyone with a decent male figure; the demon figured that gave him a bit of leeway to let his own mind wander. Or, at least, his fingertips… "Of course, devils and angels appear on Earth every so often—it is a part of your job, just as it is ours. But you and I both know that you work on a restricted schedule. A devil should prowl the streets for no longer than thirty days consecutively; if they do, then they are not doing their jobs. If they are not doing their jobs, then they are in our way. And I would like for you to kill them."

Sebastian wasn't entirely certain whether the chill that shot down his spine was from the touch of deadened skin— clammy and plastic beneath the hellfire heat of his own—, or the result of understandable alarm, a reasonable reaction to such an unexpectedly blunt demand. "Kill demons?" The devil's hand curled instinctively around his tamer's bony wrist; he wasn't sure if it was a possessive gesture, or simply something to steady himself. Already pale, his face whitened a shade more, mouth distorting in distrust. "To what point and purpose, if I may be so bold?"

"You desire a _living _master, I presume?" William intoned flatly, puncturing the drawl with a sharp sniff. "Then you will kill demons, and you will do so for two reasons. The first being that, to be completely frank, we do not have much use for Ciel Phantomhive's soul."

He allowed that statement a moment to settle, watching calmly as Sebastian— already taken aback— fell into an even deeper rut of confusion, lips pursing around questions all three reapers had already anticipated.

"It's not that what you've offered isn't an _interesting_ bargaining chip," Undertaker cackled, and he did, indeed, seem 'interested.' Within the winkled cocoon of his ebony sleeves, spidery fingers twitched in want and yearning. "However, it is not 'interesting' in the way that you think. It may be our job to collect souls… but some souls are destined to be 'missing books' even before the soul's carrier is born. All libraries have them."

"Of course, we try to collect them nevertheless," William continued, cutting off his predecessor before the demon had a chance to. "Because, every once in a while, a renegade demon will fail at his job—much like _you_—, and will leave a volume or two behind. It wouldn't be prudent to leave those souls moldering on a side street, now, would it? Or sometimes the opposite will happen, and a devil will attempt to steal a tome that has already been given a designated call number. We must show discipline in those instances, as well."

"Though generally we only take the soul back, mangled as it is," Grell tacked on, frowning. Already unusually quiet, the expression he wore was equally uncharacteristic; still hidden behind the Undertaker, he waffled as he wavered from foot to bare foot. "We don't usually kill the demons themselves. Because there's a balance, you see—that's what the forces Above told me when I was being punished for the Jack the Ripper case, and—"

But no one was listening. "So what you are saying," Sebastian summarized, stomach knotting in unease, "is that my young master was never truly meant to hold a place in your library. Therefore, you have no use for his soul." His nails ground into the delicate flesh of Ciel's arm. Onyx talons cut through the first flimsy layer of flaking epidermal, but it did not matter; Ciel no longer bled. "And if you do not want his soul…"

"Oh no, we _do _want his soul," Undertaker assured, swaying cheerily back and forth atop his upturned box. "I don't think the library has everhad a book _donated_ by a demon… what an entertaining read it would make!" A maniacal giggle squirmed through the pallid powder of the mortician's grave-dirt skin, and in its wake his entire body wriggled. Maggots and earthworms seemed to writhe within his very soul, leaving him evermore contorted and shaking and snickering as if tickled. "Ooo, I can hardly wait to borrow it~"

"The Undertaker is correct." Once again, William readjusted the frames of his glasses, pulling Sebastian's attention away from the eccentric reaper and redirecting it towards the solemn one. Oddly, the Undertaker's glee only served to make Will's somberness seem more severe, rather than undermine it… "We greatly anticipate studying Ciel Phantomhive's soul, once it is back in our possession. We mention this only to remind you that your offering, while… generous… is not nearly so substantial as you seem to believe."

William punctuated his curt disclaimer with a heartless simper, and Sebastian very nearly punched the reaper in the face. The only thing that stopped him was the fact that his hand was still coiled around his master's, and he didn't feel like it was safe to let go. In lieu of violence, then, he grit his teeth and faked his way through humility, reaching out for that _spider's thread, which I will use to drag my enemies down with me to Hell. _"You mentioned two reasons?"

The reaper's close-mouthed smirk remained. "Indeed," he agreed, eyes narrowing behind thick rims. "Though this is more for your sake than ours. I repeat, you do desire a _living _master, do you not? In its current state, this boy's body is as of little use to you as it is to us. Had you simply removed its soul, that would have been one thing, but his death was a different matter entirely, wasn't it?"

Sebastian did not reply, but that silence—and his gaze—said enough. The I-beam, the river. A bullet wound that still marred his translucent skin, the puckered hole colored in shades of gray. He could only imagine the extent of the damage that had been wreaked upon this fragile form… at least, until the Undertaker caught sight of his grimace. Then he needed imagine no more:

"Five broken ribs, a cracked femur and tibia, two collapsed lungs, damage to the skull and possibly the brain, eardrums shattered and justifiably waterlogged, stomach grazed, liver punctured, and a pretty spine with two or three new cricks," the mortician grinned, dissecting his smile—as he undoubtedly did Ciel—with four willowy fingers, uplifted and ashen. "Our delicate little lordship is actually far more durable than I would have guessed. You should be proud of him, Mr. Butler~"

The devil considered being proud. But really, most of what he knew of pride was a derivative of hubris, and he didn't much feel like thinking on it. "In short," he murmured, loosening his hold upon Ciel's arm. There was no need to add a fractured wrist to that list, "it is not a body a soul could reside within."

"Correct." William, too, considered the child atop the table, though with far less reverence than did his demon companion. "However, there may yet still be a way to safely and healthily revive him."

Sebastian did not speak. Instead, he awaited further answers.

"It will be a step-by-step process," the reaper informed, sober as a school teacher and just as monotone. "First, we will have to heal his corporeal injuries. This will be tedious, but doable, provided we have the right tools. The main concern is that a body cannot fully heal in a static state— we can stitch him properly together, but the bones won't set without some spark of energy to get his system running."

Sebastian considered this, froaaefkldskfafffff_ffffff_—

_Adsalewpfff_fffforced comatose state, really," Grell concluded, though he still seemed fairly preoccupied with his own thoughts and trepidations. "His memories flowed into the River Styx, so surrounding him in those scraps of Record should provide enough of a spiritual basis to remind his body of who he is without actually physically inserting his soul into the corpse, which would simply end in a second death. We _will_ need to put the soul into the water, though, or else the Records will eventually fade. They're only around _now _because the brat's soul isn't officially gone. But that energy spark is youradsradskfffff_ffff_—

_adsfjkffkffffffffkfdand he was reminiscent of Ophelia, really, with his dainty arms crossed and twilight eyes unseen, sinking slowly, slowly, slowly down into the black-molasses depths, pallid skin tinged a watery blue in his newly-constructed tomb. One watery grave for another, surrounded by memories and effervescent pockets of air, ewirjojfafffff_fffffffformed your 'Contract,' your essences bonded. Surely _that_ is not a surprise to you, considering it is that connection that allowed you to keep such a close eye on him." William's entire body tensed in disapproval, but for time's sake he kept his repugnant commentary and personal opinions restricted to the expressions that he wore. "It should also not surprise you that the power you exerted over him flowed from him in equal force, resulting in his ability to order you. This symbiotic relationship of yours has not been destroyed by death. Beneath his lid, his Contract seal still gleams, just as yours remains on that arm you've left discarded in the corner like a slob."

Almost on instinct, Sebastian shot his severed arm— discovered whist traipsing the beach—a hopeful glance, though he managed to keep that optimism thinly veiled. "So if I reestablish that link, I will be able to conduct my energy into his body, thus fueling it enough to begin the healing process?"

"Not quite," Undertaker corrected with a wheezy chortle, ivory teeth flashing as a dribble of drool slipped down his chin. "Surely you must have noticed. For as easy as it was to read his emotions and feel his will, it was rarer for him to pick up on those same cues, yes? Humans are less sensitive to the fluxes in power and energy that we are so quick to recognize. When you acted as a mortal, the energy that flowed from you was barely detectible to his living body; now that he is dead, it will be even less effective. But by the same token, simply switching to your true form would be too much—his systems would short-circuit from such a sudden and prolonged barrage of power." The reaper smirked shrewdly, waggling a knowing finger. The emerald ring bedecking the digit glinted as it caught the rosy candlelight. "He let go of that I-beam, didn't he, a mere ten seconds after you reverted to your devil self. You tuckered him out, silly boy. That burst of energy was just too much for him to handle."

The devil did not reply, but his face said enough; Undertaker choked on another breathless snort when a glitter of creeping realization dulled to reflect numb lamentations. In the clinging gloom, Sebastian's eyes held no gloss or shine or life at all. "And so you ask for me to kill," he murmured, gazing not at Will, or Grell, or even the Undertaker. Rather, his stare—much like his hand— had fallen once more upon his young charge; he ghosted ginger fingers down the soft curve of an alabaster cheek, just like

_Those cobalt eyes, bottomless and blue as the river beyond, gazed up at Sebastian from the cold embrace of the granite bench. "Carve the pain of my life into my soul," he ordered in a whisper, and beneath the nobility and grave resolution that acted as a funeral shroud, the boy's quiet entreat lingered, tinged with so many volatile emotions that it almost sounded emotionless. But even as each new sentiment surfaced, it was calmly smothered beneath the crushing weight of a single, throbbing feeling—more important than the others, more profound and telling. And it was that feeling, in that moment, that guided the demon forward, gloves shucked from aching fingers and left discarded on the floor_

"When you kill, you release your baser instincts, and thus your powers, for just an instant—just enough to help, rather than hurt," William decreed, sounding very bored, at this point. Clearly he had expected the demon to be more aware of the biological workings of his own form of entrapment; if only he realized how little Sebastian knew. How much he had so recently learned. "That energy will maintain the child for a short time, but then—until such a time as his own heart can be restarted— he will need another shot of power. In short, the more demons you kill, the fffff_fffasdfaewrwefadsff_fffaster the boy will be able to heal h-lf. As he heals, his soul will likely accept the vessel on its own, and he will grow more and more aware. When his body has fully rec-ered, he will tru- awaken, and the two of you will remove yourselves from my sight until the day that we come to collect on our end of this bargaia_dsfffffffffff_

"_What has been sac-iced will never be returneadsfaiewodfffffff—_

—_abmeterribilissimoipseffffff_

Sebastian swallowed down a serpentine hiss, face screwed up in agony as he stuffed yet another undulating coil of memory back into his core. Within the shredded crater of his belly, now devoid of so much skin, slimy organs rippled and squelched within moist glazes of liquid lipids. Yellowed bile mixed with puss and blood as the demon forced organs and film alike back into his wounded body, choking on a howl and a mouthful of black tar as he did so. Bashing his head against the bathroom wall, he tried to distract himself from the excruciating roiling of his innards and focus instead on the soothing chill of the partition and the adjacent porcelain sink… but with each careful, shining stitch, Sebastian worried more and more about biting off his own tongue to keep from screaming.

Beside him on the fluid-streaked ground lay random scraps of his Cinematic Record, bits and pieces that he either hadn't noticed or simply didn't care about right then. He'd find a way to deal with them later; for the time being, he studiously ignored their call, as well as whatever scenes they happened to depict. The twenty third demon he'd killed—or maybe that was the seventh. The smile of Lady Elizabeth, so innocent and sweet. The blue-eyed boy from the alley, with his buttery hair and feminine shrieks. The feel of a gossamer shawl teasing over his inner thigh, the translucent stole emblazoned with golden threads— threads so much like the ones sewn into his ragged flesh, but the loops of these stitches bore phrases, bore words:

_Finally, a spirit came forward, stood before the Lord and said, "I will entice him." _

1 Kings 22:21.

With a final, shuddering snarl, Sebastian threw aside the needle and spool and collapsed fully against the wall, breathing heavily but evenly. His abdomen quivered, both in pain and in protest, but the blood streaked across it was drying, not fresh. He could no longer see his stomach, and that, too, was an excellent development. Lids drooped and soul weary in the wake of utter exhaustion—the price extracted from both his recent battle and the subsequent cleanup— the demon tossed the tiny pile of disregarded film a lethargic glance, initially feeling rather apathetic about its existence. But then, from the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of dark azure; from the heap of ghostly cellophane, Sebastian lifted a short strip from… my, had it already been three years? With a muted smile, he watched the stubborn eleven-year-old smirk behind a ratty old novel, making scathing witticisms that the devil couldn't quite pick out…

He placed the faded film atop his breast, shielding it with his right hand as he coughed into his left. The first cough faded into a second, and the second into a fit; he curled inward from the sheer force of the attack, cringing as spittle and something-else coated his sweaty palm in boiling droplets. A sharp pain ripped down the length of his front as he hacked and convulsed; it felt as if the barbs in his lungs had sunk their hooks into his throat, and he half-wondered whether the blockage he felt at the base of his neck was chunks of his own tattered esophagus.

When the spasms faded into an uncomfortable rumble of sensation, Sebastian sighed. When he sighed, he closed his eyes, dropping his dirtied fist upon the floor. When he dropped that dirtied fist, he allowed it to fall open—blossoming outward like some kind of exotic bud.

And if the palm of that lowered hand looked a little redder, felt a little wetter, the devil pointedly ignored it.

**XXX**


	5. Quattuor

**Disclaimer: **Nope.

**Author's Note: **Hopefully things start making more sense from here on out. C:

**Warnings: **SebaCiel, SebaOC. Ignores season II (mostly). OCs. Fail editing. Death, destruction, depravity. Religious themes.

**XXX**

**X**

**XXX**

_Kshtffff_—

My Sire was put in charge of the second circle, and so I was placed there, as well. It was still strange, at the time, to think of the brimstone and sulfur of that desert domain as "home;" with every bat of my eyes, I expected to see the warm radiance of Above: the flowering trees and snow-white mounts beyond the Gate. I may not have been one of the First, but I had been an angel born and bred… The heat and flame of this new realm was foreign to me, and I did not like it. Less than a fortnight, and already my feathers had melted away; my skin was slowly smoldering, flaking off of jutted bone. My nails had turned black as night with rot.

For a while, I wondered if I was dying.

"Dying? Dying is one of the few things you _needn't_ worry about," Asmodeus grouched when I found the courage to ask, trembling fingers clenched around the ashes of my wings. My sire was looking no better than myself; his battle scars and blisters had yet to heal. It was possible, I supposed, that they never would. Just as his face had grown sallow and gaunt, so had his personality changed; once so jovial and kind, he now sneered and thrashed in agony beneath the overhanging of a crag, scowling at me with an eye tinged in scarlet. The purple shade that the rocks provided did little to shelter from the scorching heat. "He would not grant us that pleasure. This is not death. This is evolution."

"_What think you, Sebastian," the dark-eyed child whispered, giving a languid stretch in the moonlight. As he shifted, sheets of silk and shadow slipped and slid across his body, svelte and sultry and stripped of all secrets. From beneath the fringe of coal-blue lashes, he watched the sky for which he was named; I preferred to watch him, for I found his idiosyncrasies far more fascinating. "Torture and envy, backstabbing and antagonism, avarice and lust... humans are nothing more than a pack of wolves in sheepskin, wouldn't you say? Perhaps humans will simply evolve into demons, one day." _

_He arched a graceful fraction, brushing his chest against my own. Beneath twin bolts of fleshy alabaster, nerve endings tingled and tickled and twitched. He would not yet allow me to kiss him—_what big teeth you have_—but I was granted the privilege to touch. My cheek rubbed coyly against him own, feline in gesture, and my forelocks slithered across his throat. _

"_Ah, and what a shame that would be," I lamented, leering when the waft of my breath shot a shiver down his spine. He smelt of fear and arousal, dead traitors and bath salt. "Demons will never be as innovative as the humans, my lord." _

"They called it 'innovative,' did they?"

Of course they had. They had no choice in the matter.

_There is never any choice. _

"Yes," I answered simply, not bothering to feign surprise. Of course Baalberith knew what the others had said of his ideas. He had seen their reactions. He had known what they'd believe before they did. I rather thought that was cheating. "Though they are also curious to know how you can be so certain that human souls will revive us in the ways claimed."

The elderly demon responded with a raspy laugh, grinning into the dusky dimness of the basanite cavern in which he'd decided to dwell. The other devils had long-since grown weary of living as nomads; I had assisted in the design and construction of a number of palaces, each as grand and ostentatious as the ones we'd known Above. Only Baalberith, a mystery in his many eccentricities, had opted to remain beyond the city walls. He had been granted high office and held great power, but no one bothered tempting him from his wretched little hovel. Omnipotent as he was, he was the trying sort; there was no want of his friendship, but from time to time there was need of it. Or, at least, a need to exploit his magic sight. It was, like many tasks, deemed a child's mission.

Baalberith graced me with a serrated smile—an expression that did not reach the milky white of his glazed eyes. In a certain light, those pearly orbs gleamed with the same candescence of polished labradorites. He did not need to speak for me to know his answer; I did not need to speak for him to know I knew. He always had— and always would be— a fly on the wall.

"Tell me," I droned, no longer bothering to try and mask my bored contempt, "have you ever once in your life known something through your own power? Or do you always cheat and check the past and future?" My limbs creaked noiselessly as I crouched low, and my talons scraped at blackened scoria; the blush of distant, molten flares added highlights to the ebony lacquer of my garments. In the afterglow, my eyes glinted with vermillion iridescence.

He responded with a snicker and a smirk, lounging ever-more-comfortably against the mouth of his grotto. "I need no powers to see that you are burdened by a terrible yearning," the older demon quipped, sound very smug indeed. "You _want._"

_I wanted…_

I wanted to rake a bloodied path down the weathered expanse of his face; I wanted to spit at his sandaled feet and tell him what I thought of his worthless predictions. His arrogance annoyed me (unnerved me, perhaps), as did the underlying assumption that fueled it. Though I did not allow myself the pleasures of physical violence, I let him known of my distaste by way of a bestial growl.

"_Such an animal you are, Malphas," he teasingly chided, trying so hard to frown and resist— but his blue, blue eyes gave his amusement away. He was my senior, an Original; a guardian and friend. He was also taller than me by a head and a half, so when I moved to kiss him, the tips of my toes would sting bitterly. And he would beam at that, so touched by my affection… Once, following a particularly lengthy embrace, he noticed the flush of my feet and sat me down. With cool, slender fingers, he carefully massaged the pain away, lips brushing and breathing over the sensitive flesh of my toes. His teeth nipped at the biggest one; my hiccupped gasp made him purr._

"_Uriel…" _

_I loved him. I loved his tender smile, his simple ways. I loved how hallowed rays of sunlight would add streaks of gold to his russet hair. I loved the brush of his willowy hands, the whisper of his sheer shawls, the scent of gardenias that would follow him from the gardens. I loved the way he moved against me, within me; I loved those fleeting, perfect moments when we were one in the same._

_And when I told him that I loved him, he echoed those three precious words in return: murmured them into the shell of my ear, in a voice that resounded with the clarity of church bells— lingered with the softness of a cloud. _

"'A being which can still love is not yet a devil,'" Baalberith decreed, and my snarls faded to silence in the wake of his solemnity. It hung between us, strange as our camaraderie, and into that hush, the elder demon spat a snort. It was almost avian in its resonance, cackled and curt. "Or so some Christian fool will say, one day," he tacked on, giggling into a gnarled claw. "But what think you, Malphas?"

"_What think you, Sebastian?"_

With a twist of his withered body, Baalberith flopped forcefully over: translucent eyes staring through me and into a future I couldn't see.

"Is it that we devils know too little of love, or that we know too much?"

—_abmeterribilissimoipseffff_

**XXX**

**Diligo Victum Nusquam**

_Quattuor_

**XXX**

The fire of London had been out for months, now— almost a year, if he had his dates right. And the humans, as always, were as tenacious as cockroaches; from the film of cinders and the rubble of debris, they had rebuilt their precious city, brick by brick and house by house. Once again, rank pollution filled the smoggy heavens, mixing with the country's infamous mist; God forbid the sun ever set on the British Empire, said the patriots, but if it did, who could tell? Sebastian, for one, could hardly make out when it rose.

Though the mortality rates had already peaked and fell— long-since having stabilized at is previous average— Grell remained a vibrant fixture in the Undertaker's shop, forever trying to comfort the handsome young men who came to mourn the passing of a wife, daughter, sister, mother. "It's because this dreary place is in _desperate _need of a lady's touch," he'd quipped when Sebastian had finally thought to ask, and the Undertaker himself had chortled gaily at the answer. Whether his amusement was the direct result of Grell's response or instead a reaction to the utter disgust that had painted itself across the devil's sneering face was a mystery. Sebastian didn't particularly care one way or another; he simply detached the wanton reaper from the arm he was merrily molesting and retreated into the backroom.

That, too, had been months ago—with an anniversary that would have fallen a few short weeks after the fires. Since then, Grell's enthusiasm had faded, despite the fact that he continued to live in such close proximity to Sebastian. As he had once overheard the death god complaining, the devil simply wasn't any fun anymore; no overreactions, no curt witticisms, no threats of bodily harm. "He's just not the same without the brat around," the redhead sighed, pouting atop an urn of unmentionables. Undertaker, who was cheerily decorating his newest client, bustled about without seemingly paying attention, but Grell continued all the same. "And on the subject of the brat… don't you find this all a bit odd?"

Cloaked within the shadows, Sebastian watched as the death god gave a delicate shudder, rubbing his gloved hands up and down his garnet coat sleeves. "I mean, it's not unusual for angels and demons and reapers to quarrel, or even to kill one another, every so often… but I just have this feeling that what Will is having Sebastian-darling do isn't the answer. I mean, I was told off for disobeying the cosmic order when I killed those stupid prostitutes, and humans barely merit a blip on the cosmic radar. Don't you think the eradication of all those devils will… I don't know… leave more of an impression? Screw up the universe, or something? Like— well, maybe I'm just imagining it, but— recently, I've felt these _presences_ around the shop, and…"

Undertaker, rather surprisingly, giggled as his companion trailed helplessly off; apparently he'd been listening, after all. "Questions, questions, so many questions," he chanted, uncorking a bottle of chemicals with a resounding _pop_. A sour stench permeated the musty air. "But answers? Ah, who can offer those? All of this preordained nonsense… who's to say we're not the punch line of His grandest joke yet?" The mortician chuckled through his teeth, a soft, hissing sound much like the rustle of his robes. "The future is like the past, my dear Grell. How many pasts are there?"

Head propped in his hands, Grell frowned, brow furrowing in apprehension. He smelt a trick (as well as formaldehyde), but couldn't quite grasp what it was. "Um, one?" he tried. But the word was barely out of his mouth when the Undertaker shook his head, onyx-painted talons chattering against the glass of his bottle.

"It _looks _like there is a single, linear past," he corrected in a wheezy drawl, grinning as widely as the corpse that the authorities had left in his care. "But nothing, not even what _was, _is set in stone. There are as many interpretations, twists, lies, and ambiguities in what _has_ happened as there is in what will; what you perceived and what I perceived are two very different things, after all. Why else would we need so many history books? For simplicities sake, we may say that there is one future—just as there is one past—and we might think we know what it is… but in the end, we are all just puppets in His play, aren't we? From the mightiest angel to the lowliest insect, we are characters that He has designed and birthed. Like an author, if you will, and he dictates what we do and do not know. It is all quite fun, don't you think?" The Undertaker chortled as he ran a papery knuckle down the porous cheek of his unmoving client. Beneath his shifting, silvery bangs, sharp eyes crinkled in a show of mirth. "I do wonder what twists we shall be enjoying in upcoming chapters."

**X**

For Sebastian, those 'upcoming chapters' were not, initially, what he would have considered 'enjoyable.' He had no personal or moral qualms against killing, not even if the victims were his own brethren. But after the first few weeks, the whole charade had begun to feel very pointless. He would murder, yes. He would feel that rush of adrenaline, that surge of power, yes. He was assured by all reapers involved that his master had received a portion of that energy—that his cursed eye would glow, ever so faintly, within the murky blackness of his peculiar, glass-lidded coffin. But though his internal injuries had been properly treated and the superficial damage dealt with to the best of Grell's abilities, the young earl had yet to show any signs of revival. He merely floated, wraithlike, within the embrace of his water-logged memories—an endless loop of soul-film running between his decorated ears. His heart did not beat, his hair did not grow… the puckered welts and bloodless stitches left after treating that soldier's bullet did not bruise or scar. His only movements were facilitated by the dancing of bubbles, the artificial tide that swept his bangs back and fore, back and fore. The king of the Funtom toy-making company was now little more than a doll himself, melting-plastic pieces and all.

For days, weeks, one month, two, Sebastian would spend all of his free time in front of that casket— searching desperately for any signs of life. Any tell that something was happening, be it inside that body or out. Once, feeling so dejected that he started to question the reapers themselves, he allowed his form to shift… He was only satisfied when Ciel's right eye did, indeed, shimmer with an indigo light that nothing else could imitate. And though it may have been nothing more than a trick of his mind, he thought—just maybe— he'd seen an eyelid flicker in the wake of that sudden surge of energy.

It was after his eighth kill that change became notable— when his master's long lashes lifted ever-so-slightly, and beneath that flap of lucent skin, Sebastian caught a glimpse of pure, deep blue. He had been so excited, even Grell's exuberant antics could not annoy him. Of course, Grell's exuberance was not what it once had been; neither the passing of time nor the encouragement of the Undertaker could convince him to calm down. Despite everything, the redhead still seemed troubled by the whole charade: too wary to even stand close to the enclosed child. When he tried to voice his concerns, however, Sebastian (as was his wont) simply ignored him. Or, depending on his mood, genially requested that Grell shut his mouth and go tend to other matters. Either way, the reaper's distaste for the boy (strong enough in life) grew exponentially in death, but for Sebastian's sake he kept his revulsion contained to glares and muttered insults.

When Sebastian beheaded his twelfth opponent— a nameless imp who'd likely been somebody's footstool Below— he was somewhat dismayed to discover that the cough he'd recently developed was worsening. It felt as if his throat was perpetually congested with phlegm; it wasn't until he'd washed away the blood of his seventeenth victim that he realized some of the liquid smeared across his hands was his own. Odd, since he hadn't been injured. He'd only had to cough again… But that was neither here nor there, and even if it was, the devil could not bring himself to care: that was the day the young master had managed to mouth his first letter, pallid lips stumbling over a quiet "k." Heart racing, breathing shallow, Sebastian had watched his faltering charge with a hunger that was almost _painful_, palms pressed flat to the moist glass and eyes trained solely upon that sickly face. At first, he did not know what the "k" meant, but another bout of bloodlust bought him an "i," and that was followed—one moonless September night— by a lax-lipped "l." From there, he knew his course.

"Yes, my lord," the devil swore, the words brimming with a desperate emotion that he wasn't entirely certain he could name, even if he wanted to. His hands left weeping prints upon the coffin's translucent face, and the rivulets of that condensation ran in shades of diluted pink. "Yes, I will kill more for you. I will revive you. I do not lie…"

The midnight rendezvous with the sobbing blonde and his soul-bound companion resulted in the twentieth tally on Sebastian's mental scoreboard; it was the twenty-sixth, eight short weeks later, that found him writhing on the bathroom floor, spitting blood and bile over strips of his own memory. He hadn't thought that third-rate demon would have posed much threat, but neither had he been prepared for the whore to morph into her true form. He had only just evaded being eviscerated by her horns… even still, the damage was not the sort that he could ignore— especially when an attack of such negligible power should have failed to do so much as knick his skin. Yet, there he was, soaked in red and black and green, nearly gutted.

After an hour or so, Grell had tentatively knocked on the closed restroom door. When Sebastian couldn't find the energy to summon an answer (let alone care that he was being spoken to), the redhead began to pound harder on that wooden barrier, shrieking as if to wake the dead. And perhaps that's what he thought he needed to do.

"Sebastian-darling? You're still alive in there, aren't you? I heard the most terrible hacking sounds!" Grell shouted, fist still wailing away at the locked entrance. Despite everything, Sebastian managed a groan of annoyance, rolling to his side to collect the gory machetes he'd tossed into the tub. Had they not been Death Scythes, he would have worried about dulling their silvery blades with rust; as it was, he was simply irked that he had to remove them from their bath before they'd been properly cleaned. "You aren't making a mess in there, are you? I _did _just clean! You don't need my help, do you? Of course I'd be willing to wash your wounds! Sebastian-darli— _eep!"_

Serenaded by the clatter of tripping stiletto heels, the devil could hear Grell squeal as he scrambled away from the door. Fortune had taken liking to the reaper, it seemed, (or perhaps had a personal vendetta against Sebastian), for while the dagger was thrown with skill (a whistle of air, a crack of oak, a _thud_ of a wedged handle), it nonetheless missed its noisy target. Sebastian blamed his condition, as well as the oily sludge still coating his hands; even so, the pointed blade sticking through the now-fractured wood was disturbingly close to where Grell's fist had landed only seconds ago, and in the end was enough to shut him up.

"Why is it so difficult for you to leave me alone?" the devil groused, almost prostrate so far was his slump. He rested his chin against his torso, gathering his energy; the reminder of the mundane had calmed his heart, at least, and he was starting to feel his energy return. His innards were still tender, rearranging themselves beneath the veneer of his belly, but their incessant and excruciating churning was gradually fading to a bearable ache, akin to throbbing cramps. In a few minutes, he might even be able to sit up. In another hour or two, he could wobble his way to bed. For reasons he didn't care to think about, sleep felt less like a luxury and more like a necessity, nowadays. He supposed he could have asked Grell to help him to his cot, but that rather felt like giving in to weakness… and frankly, the reaper's clinging and worrying made him feel uncomfortable. "I would highly encourage you to start treating me more like William and the Undertaker, lest I decide to deal with _you _as a demon should."

For a full and blissful minute, Grell did not reply; Sebastian half-wondered if he was even there. But no, he would have heard the sound of booted feet fleeing, and though his ears were full of the rushing of blood, he wouldn't have missed a sound that obvious. Nor did he miss the pout in the death god's voice when he finally found it again. "And why is it so difficult for _you _to be nice to me?" Grell countered sullenly, probably sticking out his bottom lip as he did so. "I mean, you know I don't mind your cold, shapely shoulder, but this is ridiculous! I know you're hurting! I know you're lonely! I'm just trying to help, so that you don't need—! So that you don't need to…"

Maybe he hesitated because he sensed the second knife in Sebastian's hand, poised and ready to fly. Maybe he simply didn't know how to finish that sentence, and had fallen silent in order to collect his muddled thoughts. Maybe it was a combination of the two, or something else entirely. It didn't matter, because regardless, the devil knew what he'd intended, and he was less that amused.

"Grell," he murmured, each syllable perfectly enunciated in the throes of arctic fury. "There is no replacement for my young master. And even if there was, it would certainly not be _you_." The tone was curdled with revulsion, and his face reflected as much: mouth twisted as if tasting something sour and spoiled. In its own way, the declaration was as razor-sharp as the weapon he'd just lodged in the entryway. But this time, the attack hit home. Sebastian's frown spoke of no remorse when he heard Grell's sniffle, a tiny, pathetic sound.

"…I know you don't trust me. You don't even like me," the reaper mumbled after a pregnant pause, wringing the hem of his coat so roughly that Sebastian could hear his leather gloves squeak with each wind. It was, like everything else about the reaper, gratingly obnoxious. "But I understand obsession. I do. I was punished for it. And I don't want to see the same thing happen to you, Sebastian-da… Sebastian. You don't have to trust me, or like me, or talk to me. I just want you to _listen _to me, because no one else is."

The devil offered no reply. Grell took that as encouragement, as a cue.

"You're changing," he whispered, and for the first time he sounded the faintest touch frightened. "For all the times you used to insult me and hurt me before, it was never like this. You always did it with a smile. It didn't bother you. But then you were so nice to me—" For some reason, Sebastian's reattached arm gave a twitch— "…and soon after that, you became brutal. Not in the nonchalant way of yesteryear, when you acted as if cruelty was expected of you, as a demon and a butler… but genuinely. Like now. There's so much _emotion_ in your voice. Where did it come from? Surely you must have noticed… And if not that, then you can't possibly have missed the weakened state of your body."

Sebastian growled, long and low and feral. The noise of it rumbled through his damaged chest, aggravating the organs there; it was only with great difficulty that he managed to quash another round of coughing. "I do believe that I requested you leave me alone," he bit through grit teeth, eyes narrowing in an unseen show of obstinacy. "Whatever ills befall my body are no one's concern but my own. As for the rest, perhaps I will take your lectures to heart next time you massacre over two dozen of your own kind. I would be interested to see how well _you _handle it."

"…fine, then." With a muffled sigh of surrender, Grell seemed to droop and give in. "Do let me know if I can help at all, Sebastian-darling," he grumbled in way of goodbye, though his sulk seemed fueled more by hurt than anger. Either way, he was gone, and Sebastian felt all the better for it; he did not like the reaper, ostentatious and insufferable as he was. He did not like his clinging, his gossip, his shrill, discordant giggles; he did not like his attitude towards Ciel and Sebastian's self-appointed mission. Mostly, he did not like the constant stream of dire warnings—found them tiring and… discomforting.

The demon's scowl darkened, almost enough to match his polished leather. No. No, the discomfort did not stem from the endless stream of cautionary stories; the palpitations in his heart were not a result of feebleness, mental or physical. It was simply… strenuous, this line of work he'd fallen into. Humans tended to succumb to exhaustion after such wearisome activities as murdering another human. It stood to follow that a devil would feel the same after murdering another devil.

"I do not feel guilt or fear," he breathed, more to himself than to anyone else; more to feel the rush of air against his lips than to communicate. Atop his breast, the strip of Record had begun the sluggish process of leaching back into his skin, seeping through whatever cracks in his flesh it could find. It had become slippery beneath his palm, as if it'd started to liquefy; it felt like jelly and smelt like antiseptics. Memories could heal, just as they could hurt. Still… "Killing a demon is simply arduous work."

"Would it be easier, then, to kill an angel?"

Sebastian froze.

"Representatives from Below and Middle have had their turn."

Sebastian froze, and for a fraction of an instant, was thankful that he'd lacked the strength to stand; he surely would have toppled at the sound of that voice. That voice. Here, in a fluid-stained bathroom, where the demon slouched against the wall with his legs sticking out at odd angles. His hand—resting atop the coating of film strip-sludge on his chest—began to quiver as the heart beneath it shuddered into overdrive, pumping shock-tinged adrenaline through his system. Despite previous weariness, his eyes had opened wide; with a loll of his head, Sebastian's stare fell to the right, where a figure had appeared, lounging on the lip of the bathtub.

"Now, I shall speak for those Above."

Beside the demon, atop the tiles, another strand of Cinematic Record lay: a reel of shawls and peek-a-boo skin, as pale as the clouds in the navy-blue sky. A sky the same color as the illusion's shimmering eyes. A sky the same color as his guest's probing gaze.

"Such an animal you are, Malphas," the other lamented, cocking his head with a sad sort of smile. "Though I suppose we immortals are less susceptible to change… under normal circumstances." He tilted his head a fraction further, as if seeking agreement; silken auburn strands shifted, curling around perfectly shaped ears and caressing the back of a sinuous neck. The otherworldly intruder had rested his chin within the cup of a lithe hand, and down the length of that slender arm glistened beads and baubles of purest gold. Decorative chains coiled around limber legs and glinted beneath a gossamer wrap; embroidered into his stole were passages from Genesis and Revelations, Psalms and Kings.

_Finally, a spirit came forward, stood before the Lord and said, "I will entice him." _

In retrospect, the devil could have feigned confusion. He could have faked forgetfulness. He could have worn a mask of indifference, could have dealt with the visitor like any sane creature would have treated one who'd so randomly appeared in their bathroom. But by the time he'd realized all of this, it was too late: the name toppled from Sebastian's tongue before he had a chance to swallow it, and that was enough to seal his fate.

"Uriel."

The angel smiled.

"Hello, little one."

**XXX**


	6. Quinque

**Disclaimer: **I own very little. The rights to Kuroshitsuji are not listed among those possessions.

**Author's Note: **And so it began last chapter. Listen guys—if any of y'all in question are still reading—this _is_ a SebaCiel story. The only (consenting) SebaUriel you really get is in flashbacks. I understand the idea of loyalty to an OTP, but let's remember that Sebastian has lived for millennia. The idea that he wouldn't have had relations with _anyone else_ in that time is a bit ridiculous. I gave warnings when appropriate (check last chapter if you don't believe me) and what with the way Sebastian is acting, I have a hard time thinking of how I can make it any more apparent that his heart is Ciel's, right now. In any case, I apologize if this story has angered you. I do hope you come back to read my future works, or can at least enjoy the "Bicentennial" series.

That said, thank you to everyone who continues to favorite "Diligo" and leave me nice reviews! It truly means a lot to me; OCs are a risk (obviously), and fail more often than they succeed. I am more grateful than I can say to those of you who have decided to give Uriel and Baalberith a chance, and to those who trust me when I say that this _is _a SebaCiel story. I hope you enjoy this fic to its conclusion~! C:

(Oh, and also—because this has come up, too— the "keyboard smash" and random jumping between scenes is one-hundred percent intentional. It's there for a reason, annoying or not. It's stylistic, as well as… indicative. But of what, you'll have to figure out on your own. ;3)

**Warnings: **SebaCiel, SebaOC. OCs. Ignores season II (mostly). Death, destruction, depravity. Religious themes. Fail editing.

**XXX**

**X**

**XXX**

_Kshtfffff_—

I have never understood the concept of 'lust.' Rather, I have never understood why those in Power bothered to create such a word—why there's a Circle dedicated to its perpetuators, why their souls are forced to spend Eternity in an undulating orgy of dissolving flesh and throaty wails. From my post, I could hear their bony fingers scrabble and rake— scraping at themselves, at others, at graveled earth, their skin and nails chipping into bloodied stumps that matched and molded and melded into the bodies before and around them. Wax dolls, one feeding into the other. Amoebic and parasitic, squelching as they moved along. A sluggish, rolling thing; I would watch them (_it_) from above, alone atop a cliff.

_Dessert and darkness. The winds howled. The platter toppled. _

"I am a demon and alone."

_It almost seemed a waste, really; such pretty eyes were rare. I wanted them, just as I wanted his soul. I wanted them both._

My sire told me that I would learn in time. (_"Each day feels like a century without you." _) He told me that I likely knew already, but had not yet linked the name to the feeling; he urged me to think of attractive mortals, licentious succubae, Uriel. But no—I was aware of the emotions he spoke of, tingling through my veins like (stardust and butterflies) liquid dugs and poison. But those sensations were not "lust." What is "lust?" Lust is a craving, a yearning, a _need_. A desire to possess someone, fully and completely.

_I wanted…_

Lust is Greed. And greed I understand.

_I wanted him. I wanted him in my arms. I wanted to see him scowl and sulk; I wanted to see his fleeting smile. I wanted to watch his devious smirk as it stretched and elongated—that smirk that sent politicians fleeing as fast as their stocky legs would carry them. I wanted the cruelty, the passion, the hatred. I wanted the faltering sweetness, so unique to the human race. I wanted the condescendence, the overconfidence, the haughtiness, the temptation. The game. I wanted this decrepit old ruin to shine with its former illustriousness… But my desires were answered only by silence and charred wood. The estate was nothing more than ice and snow and withered vines, a chocolate cake coated as much in frost as frosting. _

Old habits are difficult to break.

_People die. Dreams die. Hopes die. _

Only greed and hunger remain.

—_abmeterribilissimoipseffff_

**XXX**

**Diligo Victum Nusquam**

_Quinque_

**XXX**

"What are _you _doing here, Uriel?"

The angel beamed benignly at Sebastian's low-voiced snarl, folded wings whispering against the porcelain of the bathtub. He did not seem overly fazed by any fraction of the scene before him: the devil's acidic expression, the drying streaks of bile and bloodshed, the machete wedged into the locked door. Instead, he whistled softly—an appreciative, amused sort of sound.

"You have always been so zealous, Malphas. I would like it call it one of your virtues," Uriel said affectionately, his chin just-barely brushing against the curve of uplifted fingertips. "If only you would apply that same enthusiasm to more righteous activities…" It was a rebuke, but ever-so-gentle; his lashes closed as he offered his companion a genuine grin. The sight made Sebastian's stomach twist—this time metaphorically, rather than literally; how odd to see _that look_ on the face of its original owner after so many millennia. Not that the demon had ever been able to perfect it; though he couldn't currently see them, he knew that smile had reached the angel's eyes.

He felt like a fledgling again. He didn't much like it.

"You have not yet answered my question," Sebastian growled, summoning enough strength to shift an inch away from the intruder. His entire body screamed in protest; sweat-slickened garments clung and screeched as they skid over the wall. Beneath that tattered leather, his newly-stitched skin stretched and strained, taut as a rucksack about to rupture. Grimy palms pattered atop the tiles, and in the end the demon simply readjusted his hold on his second Scythe, making his grasp on it as obvious as possible. Uriel cocked his head, watching the futile struggles curiously. "For what purpose have you come to this place?"

The angel blinked, his expression innocent and open. "I should think that would be obvious," he lightly commented, lacing his hands and setting his head atop them. "I have been keeping an eye on somebody very important. Not to mention—as I previously stated—that it is now my turn to council you, as a representative from Above." Uriel emphasized this pronouncement with a brisk nod of his head, as if to counterbalance the disbelief polluting Sebastian's face. "Yet, while I am, of course, happy to see you after so long—" and damn that bastard, he seemed to mean it— "I must confess, I am also disappointed. I had thought you were wiser than this, Malphas. It should not take three of us to convince you to see the error of your ways, particularly when our friend Grell has been so very dogged in his attempts." The angel sighed softly, like a parent on the cusp of exasperation. "I had rather hoped it would not come to this."

"But you _knew _it would, did you not?" Sebastian returned, in a tone suggestive of a bitter sneer. Still, he managed to keep his lips pursed and his features impassive, gaze flicking to glare at some unseen point in the distance. "You are an angel of destiny. Just another petty fortune-teller in the end. I've never much liked fortune-tellers." He scoffed, nostrils flaring in distaste as he thought of black-eyed crows.

At this, Uriel's bland mask suffered its first little fissure: a tiny crack near the mouth that made him frown. It almost looked as if his feelings were hurt. "I may be an angel of destiny," he quietly corrected, standing with a rustle of feathers and silk, "but I only know what one's destiny _should _be. Not what it _will _be. There is no one in this universe who is truly omnipotent. No one but Our Father Above." The angel crossed himself then, deferential fingers chiming sweetly as his bangles rattled and sang. Sebastian fought the urge to roll his eyes and gag. "I gave Grell the thread hoping that it would serve as a warning."

Despite the pain, Sebastian felt his body jostle and chest jolt as a heartfelt snort escaped him. It was uncharacteristically uncouth, but the devil wasn't feeling or looking very much like his usual self, anyway. "A warning?" he echoed dryly, unconvinced. "Of what sort? It felt more to me like an invitation. In fact, I suppose I should thank you… that thread did wonders on my lord."

The angel grimaced. "We are all in the service of only one Lo—"

"Oh, shut up."

Though a retort was already slipping off the tip of his tongue, Uriel did as his unwilling host requested; he swallowed back his rebuttal with a disheartened sort of pout. And perhaps as a result of re-ingesting those sharp words, something inside of the angel was punctured: a moment later he had deflated with a rush of air, lowering himself to his knees before the wounded devil. Sebastian, much like a little boy he once knew, did his best to stubbornly ignore the angel, even when Uriel placed a ginger hand atop his own.

"I was only trying to give you the means to fix yourself. To mend your fate," Uriel told him plaintively, more of a breath than a murmur. He tried to seek out the demon's vermillion gaze, but Sebastian's stare remained elusive, aloof as his expression as he gazed into the empty air. The angel may as well have been talking to a corpse; he wondered if he soon would be. "This is not right. You are not meant to look like this, act like this. Feel like this. You are straying from your path, and there is only so much I can do to save you. But I am trying, little one. I am. I _want_ to save you. I want to take you back Home."

Sebastian did not respond. He did not allow himself to look into those probing cobalt eyes, surely glossy with emotion and conviction. He pretended not to feel the fingers that had coiled around his own, so warm and familiar, as they lifted his fist and clasped it, desperately, to a gossamer-swathed chest. "You are not beyond forgiveness, Malphas. _No one _is," Uriel whispered, almost frantic in his reverential enthusiasm. "If you would only ask for it. If you would only let go of—!"

"Oh, the angels' saccharine lies."

The derisive words cut through Uriel's pleading with the precision of a scalpel; Sebastian choked on the tail end of a cough, but it was scorn that oozed from his lips this time, rather than tar and gore. "I remember those lies," the demon continued, graveled and low, as he ripped his hand from the angel and pulled his back away from the wall. His muscles burned, his organs churned— for a moment, he feared that they might burst through his skin and splatter across the floor. But it was worth it, that anxiety and agony, if it helped him save whatever face he had left. Temple clammy, mouth parted to allow for silent pants, he rested his forehead against his now-propped knee and husked a guttural snicker. "They sound so pretty in the ears, those lies. I've always thought so. They do well to distract one from all of the decay and filth and horror that lurks underneath. Like the crusted makeup of the whores in London's brothels… Absolutely lovely."

Sebastian smirked, and the corners of it licked at his ears; Uriel did not recoil, but his retort was deadened with derision. "You may call the angels liars," he coolly returned, "but the devils are no better."

"Ah, I am afraid I must disagree. We are _much _better," Sebastian countered, drooped head twisting back and forth, back and forth, against the joint of his leg. He flexed the fingers that he'd so recently snatched away from the angel; they felt distractingly silky and warm. Disgusting. "After all, we are the ones who rebelled against your hypocrisy, are we not? We grew sick of the immaculate shroud that you had cast over the world, over our _lives_—we grew weary of being told that everything was 'perfect' when we could smell the rot beneath." Through the fringed curtain of his ebony forelocks, the devil cast his companion a brief, withering glance. "I prefer the devils' truths to the angels'," he frigidly decreed, slickened canines glinting like ivory icicles in the curled crevasse of his maw. After so many millennia, his body had transformed and adapted; now his mouth looked every bit as much an abyss as the Pit that he called home. His breath was like hellfire, his eyes glinted like coals. "For while angels skew things in a falsely positive light, our words ring with reality. This world is like the one Below, unfeeling and callous and cruel. Our promises reflect that. Yes… I swore on That Day that I would never tell a lie. Not like _you_, Uriel," Sebastian brusquely accused, but even as the allegation fell from his lips, he faltered—slightly. Ever so slightly. Just enough to choke on a sludgy half-cough, rough voice hitching as his gaze slid back to the wall. "…not like you."

For a long moment, the angel said nothing. He remained, crouched and motionless, beside the rancorous devil. But as the minutes wore on, the pool of his sapphire eyes seemed to expand and deepen: first into lakes, then into seas, then into oceans— bottomless and unfathomable as time itself. The corners crinkled in pain, a pain that was reflected in the vacillation of his response. "I _do_ love you, Malphas," the angel vowed, and the words wrung with the elegiac timbre of infinity. But the power and conviction of the statement fell upon deaf ears.

"You love everyone," Sebastian dully intoned. His own eyes had gained a soulless luster, flat and glassy as dusty mirrors. Uriel could see his own reflection in them, stoic despite the mournful gleam of agreement.

"I do."

"Then it is the same as loving no one," the demon drawled, almost as if bored. Still, the riposte thrummed through the air with an exhaustion that resonated down to the very marrow of his bones; Sebastian sighed, as if to steady himself, and cast his companion a glacial glower. "So it cannot be out of 'love' that you came here to stop me."

"Just as it is _because_ of love that you cannot stop?" Uriel surmised, arching a single, slender brow. The devil did not bother with a verbal response, but the hostility that tinged the resultant hush said more than enough. The angel nodded sagely, slow and understanding, even as his bright gaze darkened. "Malphas… Three things will last forever: faith, hope, and love… and the greatest of these is love. Yes, love is an impressive force, stronger than muscle-might or manmade mechanisms. It can conquer many things: anger and fear, resentment and concern. Love can create life and cultivate happiness. Love is what will save humanity. But…" Here he wavered, verbal tenderness and visual empathy melting into stone-faced solemnity. "Even still, it cannot bring back the dead."

Sebastian, obstinate as ever, made no reply. Equally flinty of demeanor, he maintained eye contact with the distant door and did not move. From the tip of his finger, a single dewdrop of blood shuddered, threatening to forsake its hold.

"As it appears that subtle encouragement will not be effective on you, allow me to be blunt," Uriel continued, tone losing all pity and sweetness as he stood. In the wake of this swiftness, a self-made breeze rushed through his wings and gown; a pale tower of authority, he stared down his sloped nose with a scowl. "The world we know is the result of a delicate collaboration of balance. Black and white. Good and evil. One cannot exist without the other, and a single party's attempt to eradicate one side of the scale endangers us all. Ash and Angela are an example of that, the poor things—they lost their minds when a certain devil became more attune to the gentler side of his nature and did not immediately kill a particular boy-child." The angel's frown deepened, as if mourning a memory. "Trying to offset an over-influence of good by embracing a degree of evil … They were a sacrifice for maintaining balance."

The devil sneered in a show of indifference, snapping serrated teeth when Uriel dared to step forward. In the end, though he stood his ground an instant longer than Sebastian would have liked, the intruder spun around and moved away, pacing to the other end of the bathroom as he spoke.

"But after killing Ash and Angela, that devil did not go back to the realm Below, which would have returned us to a state of equilibrium," Uriel continued, flatly recounting a tale that they both already knew. He'd clasped his hands behind his back, hidden beneath the low drape of his wings. "Instead, he made his way to Earth once more and—in exchange for something he'd lost— began hashing out the same punishment to fellow demons. But demons have evolved and are no longer like angels: instead of being both male and female, they have split to incorporate both corporeal and ethereal elements. So where a murdered angel is reduced to nothingness on Earth, if someone destroys the body of a devil, they do not die—they linger on as a sort of miasma, conscious and caught in a limbo between realms. Their souls are not human, so they are not ghosts… Instead, they become spirits of possession, worthless without a host. For though they may exist, they are no longer part of our delicate scale— they do not exert an opposing force to balance out the powers of good. And that means, sooner or later, both 'good' and 'evil' will cease to exist."

Sebastian responded with a lazy hum, still lounging against the fluid-smeared wall. Idle hands were his plaything, and he made use of them—twirling his remaining Scythe around and around, watching what little light there was catch and glimmer on the tip of his blade. Radiance streamed down the mercury metal in ghostly ribbons of frozen fire, silver-blue and bright. "And yet you always ask for me to come 'home' with you," the demon commented carelessly, eyes trained upon the cyclical twists of his dagger. "How peculiar. Would _that _not tip your precious scales too far?"

A flinch.

"That… that's different. Given enough time and allowed to work without further disturbance, the scales would balance themselves, just as everything else in nature, and… and…" For the first time, Uriel hesitated. His back was to Sebastian, just as it'd been when the devil had first posed the question, and through the sheath of his alabaster skin, Sebastian could see his companion's pseudo-muscles tense and stiffen. In the next moment, they'd all gone lax in a shoulder-sagging sigh. But still, Uriel's face remained hidden. "…not one of us is perfect, little one," he then confessed, sounding almost as exhausted as Sebastian. He squeezed his twined fists until the knuckles turned white. "I, too, bear my crosses."

The demon made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. "Avarice has always been my favorite of the Seven, as well."

"…indeed."

Another heavy exhale, this one released through flared nostrils. Spine erecting as perfectly and suddenly as if it'd never seen a single bend, the angel spun back around to face his companion, imperious stare again firmly in place. "Malphas," Uriel calmly declared, in a voice that rung with a distant power— the muted tolling of cathedral bells heard in the far distance, but somehow still threatening to overwhelm the senses. "Your crime is not making a series of mistakes; everyone strays from their designated path once in a while. Your crime is making no 'mistake' at all. For in truth, you have known all along, have you not? You knew the demons' laws on Contracts; knew what awaited a devil after 'death.' You even told the boy-child as much: should 'that body' of yours perish, you would always remain by his side. You knew that your brethren would not die, at least in the traditional sense. Not only are you shirking on your end of a bargain, but you are consciously threatening the fabric of morality on which this entire universe is poised."

With sardonic grace that he'd long-since mastered, Sebastian's lethargic lips pulled back into a cloyingly saccharine smile. White as sugar and just as sweet, it was almost nauseating to look at. "Well, that _is_ one of the reasons people tend to oppose striking deals with ones like myself," he said modestly, as if embarrassed by a compliment. "We have something of a reputation, don't we? But let me make one thing perfectly clear…"

A shriek of air, a spray of blood; Uriel remained perfectly still as the machete sliced past him, nicking the bony jut of his cheek. His wispy russet bangs fluttered in the wake of the severed wind, still-settling even after the dagger had wedged itself beside its twin with an ear-shattering _crack_.

"As a butler, it brings me no pleasure to leave messes. I assure you, it was not my intention to let the devils live. Any part of them," Sebastian informed, watching the sober angel from beneath the curve of his lowered lashes. "And that is a policy that I plan to extend to _anyone _who dares get in my way." He beamed again, eyes closed and mouth bowed. This time, Uriel was on the opposite side of that mirror… "In fact," the demon continued conversationally, mockingly pleasant as he slid up the plaster wall, moving (with a series of ginger jerks and twitches) as if to retrieve his thrown weapons, "now that I think of it, killing an angel or two _would _help balance out your beloved scale, would it not?"

The bead of blood on Sebastian's index finger had long since fallen, but it was not forgotten: it had been reincarnated on the tip of Uriel's chin. A thinning stream of scarlet liquid trickled down to meet it; the cut healed so fast, it looked more like a tear than a wound. "…I would call you heartless, little one, but that is not the problem, is it?" the angel breathed, hands bunching into saddened fists beneath the swell of his hips. "It is not that you lack a heart. It is that you have damaged your soul."

"And what would _you_ know?" the devil spat back, every façade crumbling to dust as he balanced himself against the sink. Slimy palms slipped atop the porcelain; he almost tumbled into the looking glass above. "You do not even _have _a soul."

The hissed rebuke hit home with the physicality of a slap; Uriel weathered the affront with a quiet, sad smile, looking—if but for a moment—like he wished for nothing more than to reach out and help his companion. It was an impulse that he eventually managed to suppress. "Maybe not," the angel then agreed, in a tired tone that lacked all manner of his previous imperial import. "But I do have a heart, Malphas. I always have. Listen," he urged, lowering his voice an octave further. "Can you not hear it breaking?"

Sebastian said nothing.

And with as little warning as he'd come, Uriel was gone.

**XXX**


	7. Sex

**Disclaimer: **No ownage for me.

**Author's Note: **Thank you, as always, for the wonderful feedback y'all left last chapter! It makes me so happy to hear that you guys understand where I'm coming from, even if you don't like Uriel or what he represents. Each review means a great deal to me, so please, keep them coming! And I hope you continue to enjoy this story. C:

**Warnings: **SebaCiel, SebaOC. OCs. Fail editing. Ignores season II (mostly). Death, destruction, depravity. Religious themes. A small shout-out to Neneko's "Phobia." **Sexual themes, implied rape, and pseudo-necrophilia.**

**XXX**

**X**

**XXX**

_Kshtfffffff_—

"Listen closely, little one, and I will tell you a story."

_Skin as white as parchment, cold and smooth and soft: thin enough to see through to lines of winding blue veins, swirling beneath papery flesh like the finest of calligraphy. I brushed my fingers against his arm, as it to turn the page of our story. But that is something I have already done. _

Sitting comfortably in the hollow of Uriel's lap (Ariel now, with the round of two yielding breasts pressed against my willowy back), I tipped my head to gaze hungrily up, up, up. My vision caught the curve of her chin, the slant of her nose, the lace of her lashes. "What sort of tale?"

"_This is the tale of a young child's adventures in Wonderland," I murmured, folding back the cover of the tome I held aloft. The leather binding had been dyed a faded shade of burgundy, glinting in the candlelight to match the gaze I'd set upon my charge. Personally, I would have rather read him than the book, but all words had since left the small earl. Bed or coffin, table or floor; the location shifted and changed, but his body stayed the same. _

"One day, Our Father will reach out His glorious hand and create a new species of brother and sister to add to our family," Ariel decreed, lilted voice as gentle and sweet as the lilies that grew in our garden hideaway. Petals adorned in glittering globes of dew beckoned and waved; cotton-ball puffs of pollen detached themselves from stately stamens and swirled into the perfumed air. When one such sphere drifted close enough, I swatted it away with my hand and a laugh. "But though they will look like us on the outside, they will possess a special treasure within."

_And he's bare or he's clothed or he's bare and then clothed or he's clothed and then bare; the whisper of pages soon joined the whisper of breath, and I would partake in the ending offered. Wet from his tank, dry from his cleaning, lifeless arms jostling as his head bobbed and jerked. Folded knees and black-tipped hands would collide with the bottled chemicals on the table— the valued rings upon the bed stand— the carefully propped lid of the coffin, its transparent crystal reflecting the emaciated ghosts of intertwined bodies. Again and again, again and again, until the walls came tumbling down… _

Attention garnered, I glanced up, intrigued, and considered an angel's insides. "An extra heart?" I then guessed, giggling as I found my own with my hand. Beneath the velveteen heat of my breast, I could feel the organ twirl and thrum and dance. It only ever danced when Ariel was near; I wondered if her heart was dancing, too.

"_Do you ever wonder if, one day, that mask will cease to fall? It happens quite frequently to us 'weak spirited' mortals. I should think that beings like demons, who fell from grace just like we humans, would be equally susceptible. After all, you are what you act…"_

"No. It is something that we shall call a soul," my companion patiently explained, brushing an unruly strand of ebony behind the shell of my ear. Her fingers lingered against my temple, longer than was needed (but never longer than was wanted) and I marveled at how delicate those digits had become. _When I Come of Age and obtain my Other Form_, I thought, _I hope to be as beautiful as Ariel_. "It is a lifeline of sorts, connecting our siblings to Our Father— an umbilical cord that need never be severed. We do not require one, for we are always with Him, and should we ever pass away, to Him we shall return. But sadly, our new brothers and sisters will Fall, and will need a way to climb back home."

"_It is an… innovative idea," __Asmodeus conceded, looking from me to the congregation and back again. I had offered two stories to help fill the gaps in our collective knowledge: one tale told to me by __Baalberith, and the second by… someone else. The others had brought nothing to the discussion but complaints and frustration. Worthless. "These 'souls' that you have mentioned, given to all those who've Fallen. These threads that lead the dead back to the realm Above." _

"Like a spider thread?" I posed, craning my neck to meet her pretty eyes. If our new brethren were to be climbers, I supposed they would not have wings; I ruffled my underdeveloped set in a show of soundless sympathy, appreciating their comforting weight. Like Ariel's, they hung low, and were currently spread to accommodate the width of her feminine torso.

"_But we are immortal, and thus cannot be 'lead back' like one of the dead. If we imagine that souls _are_ like spider threads, then, we… demons… were doubtless given only half a strand, whereas our human counterparts received a full one. This is why Baalberith says that we hunger— our bodies ache for a complete soul. To that end, he suggests— though it is only a temporary fix— that we…" _

"Yes, exactly." She gave my nose a teasing tap, congratulating me on a riddle well-solved. "Any creature who chooses to break away and Fall from Our Father will be granted this thread of hope… but not everyone will decide to grasp it."

_I dangled the thread before him, sheer and silken and strong. No one else could see it, no one else would care. But he noticed it— he _yearned_ for it— he _pined_ for it. Shrunken as a skeleton, he extended his brittle arm: reached out to greet the shadows that loomed above his altar, making a gift of himself. And I, in turn, took that hand and the body attached to it, as greedily as I had ever taken anything before. Two threads, tied forever: sealed with a mark branded upon his cornea. _

Fall? The mindless joy in my expression faded, melting from happiness to confusion as seamlessly as the sunset faded from scarlet to azure. Who would choose to Fall? Who would want to leave this place, this utopia… and never return? "Why would someone Fall?" I demanded, face darkening in distaste. High above, the buttery glow of the sun dulled for a moment as its warmth was absorbed by a passing cloud; the long silhouettes of our floral companions virtually vanished, and I blamed the sudden chill I felt on the weather. "Who would wish to leave? And even if they did, why would they not try to return? I do not understand."

_My continued bewilderment elicited a gruff sigh; with no further forewarning, my sire reached out and plucked a rock from my grasp, snapping it clean in two. As he placed the porous pieces of pumice back upon my outstretched palm, he arched a bushy brow and frowned. "It looks different, does it not?" __Asmodeus commented, tone deceptively light. Still visibly baffled, I offered a curt nod in reply._

"_Though in truth, it is the same rock."_

_Again, I nodded. This time, however, realization struck; my narrowed gaze widened and my heart shuddered to a stop. My father, watching closely, noticed my expression of dawning comprehension and responded with a look of grim satisfaction. His claws fell heavily upon my shoulder, as weighted as his subsequent command. _

"_Follow our rules, Malphas," he ordered, in a voice as rough and graveled as the crumbling stone I clasped in my fist. "Avoid forming Contracts at all costs." _

"I hope you never do," she replied with a smile, affectionate and familiar. But as that beloved beam curled the corners of her rosy lips, she lightly closed her eyes… and I could not help but think it was to hide the fact that the expression had failed to reach them.

—_abmeterribilissimoipseffff_

**XXX**

**Diligo Victum Nusquam**

_Sex_

**XXX**

Caring for his young master had always been a highly ritualized process, and that had not changed. Rather, as time had worn on, the reverence with which Sebastian handled such mundane affairs as cleaning had increased exponentially. When his master had been… animated (he refused to use the world "alive," for he was alive now, too, yes, he was), nightly dips in the bath were the norm. The butler would see to it that not a mite or mote of the day's grime would beset his master while he slept; the child would be tenderly scrubbed from arm to skinny arm, soap lathered down each bend and curve of his leg, his back expertly massaged until every kink had been worked out… Freed of their gloves, the devil's hands would glisten within a coat of liquid soap, opalescent and slick as sin. And sometimes, yes, sin would bubble and froth beneath the surface of the bath: secret, teasing touches hidden from the world by white foam and the quiet slosh of tepid water.

But more often that not, Sebastian behaved himself: touching only what needed to be touched and finding contentment in that. There was pleasure, he discovered, of all different kinds and sorts in this world, and though his tastes tended to tip instinctually towards the baser, he eventually cultivated an appetite for the little things. Or one little thing, specifically, but not in a manner to which he was accustomed. He enjoyed banter and bullying— watching that narrow face contort in glowers of hatred so intense, it was a wonder that he didn't get slapped more often. He found equal enjoyment in verbal sparring matches: losing some, winning most, relishing the way they had to struggle to keep up with one another. Even in silence, there were things to delight in: strange feelings that stewed in his heart like afternoon tea leaves, sometimes bitter and sometimes sweet. Little things. So many little things. A flash of scarlet intelligence in deep blue eyes— a sneer that almost resembled his own. The flutter of hoary locks at the base of a slender throat, as mesmerizing as a flurry of butterfly wings. The peculiar sensation of closeness—not traditional touching, but closeness just the same: to _feel _his master there, as much _his_ shadow as he was the boy's. It had been many, many, many centuries since Sebastian had cause to feel innocent, but there were moments (rare, but there) when his fingers would brush against his lord's and he would feel a quaver in his (soul) heart that reminded him of snow: innocent, pure, white, corruptible. Soon to melt away.

Yet, for a moment… just a moment…

But those days were over, now. Long gone. There were no more veiled glances, no more fiery glares. No smirks or smiles. No afternoon tea, or morning debates, or casual touches—too fleeting to be called caresses, but too precise to have been mistakes. There was no pleasure anymore, no _closeness_, save for one: the first and most familiar, the original temptation. And it started just as it had back then— back when the child could move on his own, squirming and writhing for reasons that no one else could see, his lower waist shrouded by the froth of gardenia-scented salts.

Little Lord Phantomhive no longer engaged in baths, per say. He spent the majority of his time sealed away in his coffin, submerged in the liquid magic of a Record-saturated river. But though the Styx had many magical properties, and while the Undertaker had further fortified the child with the potions of modern science, water was still water, and flesh was still flesh. For every hour the boy spent immersed, he had to spend at least a quarter of one exposed to dry air, lest his skin become too sodden and start to sough off. Unless he was out on a devil-related errand, this job was Sebastian's, and Sebastian's alone. Once, thinking he might be too wounded to perform, Grell and the Undertaker had attempted the task themselves… but when the demon found them—the redhead lowering the casket, his partner in crime preparing a stack of fresh towels— Sebastian had chased them away with a possessive snarl and a swipe of his hand. Grell had squawked and protested (Undertaker had leered knowingly), but in the end, Sebastian had his way. Never mind the blood still trickling down his temple; Ciel was his, and no one was taking him away again.

Morning, noon, and night, with too-long breaks for killing and cat naps and silent, hungry stares. Less of a chore than a distraction, Sebastian was rarely interrupted in his duties, as he was able to keep them confined to the privacy of the back room. Every so often, a curious (still-breathing) customer of the Undertaker would go snooping about and poke their head through the curtain; usually small boys, whose adventurous spirit would suffer a sudden death at the sight of their fallen comrade, bare but for the remnants of fluid. In a reflection of his mood, Sebastian would generally scowl at the intruders and bid them curtly to leave him to his work… But once, a rare gem had wandered into the black widow's nest— an inquisitive child with dark eyes and dark hair who, in certain lights, almost looked noble. _This_ child the demon invited cooingly closer, _yes, come here, do not fear him, he will not hurt you_… and lamented over the loss of his earl, this precious creature; did _you _lose somebody precious, little one? And Sebastian listened attentive, and Sebastian dabbed away his tears, and Sebastian promised that he would help the poor dear see his mother again soon (no father? No siblings? How sad).

The devil, of course, never lied.

If Grell or Undertaker heard the boy's muffled howls— the screech of raking fingers and the clatter of knees on hardwood floors— they did not come running. Nor did they ask about the stench of sex and soul and swift evisceration, though the pungent odors surely radiated out into the main shop. In fact, the incident would have passed entirely without mention had it not been for a moment before elevens, when Grell came back to select a tea from stock. There he found Sebastian curled upon the ground: knees to his chest, spine pressed against the legs of his master's mortuary table and a glowing sphere bound in film within his fist.

"It did not taste worthy of eating," the demon clipped in way of explanation, tossing the chewed spirit to the faintly startled reaper. Grell took it, rather than the tea, back to the Undertaker; Sebastian continued to stare into the surrounding blackness, breathing in the waning scent of Ciel. In the end, his desperate endeavor had been no more gratifying than doing nothing at all… There was only one way to stave off starvation, it seemed, though it did nothing more than ease the bite, making it almost-bearable.

He would always wait until nightfall for that particular venture—midnight or later, when he was sure that the death gods had fallen asleep. Not that the devil cared what they thought, but he knew that his master would—pride and embarrassment, endearing as they were frustrating, had always stopped him pre-death, and though the child could no longer perpetuate the emotions himself, Sebastian worked under the assumption that he would, were he able. And as his butler, it was Sebastian's right and responsibility to honor his young charge's wish to keep the more private matters of their relationship secret.

The casket was heavy (and only ever seemed to grow more so), weighed as it was by wood, water, glass. Through the window of the lid, Sebastian would keep careful watch over the jostling of his tamer's tiny body, making certain not to move too quickly, to suddenly. With measured motions, he would lower the coffin onto its lacquered backside, prizing away the golden lattices and filigree that kept that lid hermetically sealed. After a moment of practiced fiddling, the claw-like locks would pop open with a hiss of unseen mechanics; the engines and air tanks stored in the casket's base would cut themselves short with a burble of bubbles, the last of which would gently assist in pushing the reanimated corpse to the murky surface. Gelatinous strips of memory— like translucent seaweed— added a viscous film to water and lordship alike; before lifting the boy from his tomb, Sebastian would gingerly peel every lucent reel from Ciel's slimy skin, carefully re-depositing the recollections in the enchanted fluid. The film that ran between his ears, too, the demon deftly removed: pulling the strip through extended fingers like a makeshift laundry press. (And like many other things, the devil ignored how increasingly difficult this job had become; how he had to squint and strain to catch the edges of the tape, nowadays.)

Once the boy had been properly stripped of strips, Sebastian would remove him from his cistern as if it were an ordinary bathtub: one arm beneath lean thighs and the other bracing a bony back. The only difference between Then and Now was the way the child's lanky arms remained limp at his sides, swaying heavily rather than wrapping around his servant's neck. The demon chose not to think about it, mouth set and expressionless… at least until he had laid Ciel atop his table, and he was once again forced to acknowledge the beauty of his master. Dappled in condensation and pearls, silvery locks dyed a natural shade of coal, the comatose earl was so porcelain-pale that he made the towels cushioning his body look gray, discolored, and sallow. Despite himself, Sebastian smiled faintly— leaning over and downward so as to admire the fragile fringe of half-hooded lashes. If he breathed on them, they fluttered; if he brushed them, they bent to his will with a tickling obedience. In this state, the same dainty compliance extended to all of the boy's sinuous extremities; he was white and gauzy and delicate, like a stalk of Queen Ann's lace that Sebastian had plucked and set in a vase. But this flower was not wilting, no— the demon would not allow him to wilt…

With a tenderness akin to wordless veneration, Sebastian would pat his charge dry: from feet to face and face to feet, making sure to address every inch of powdery, wrinkling flesh. Folding and refolding his rag (if not replacing it outright when it grew too moist), the demon slowly rubbed at the crevasse between each toe and finger, playing with the brittle webbing that rounded out the petite appendages. He bowed low, kept close— every shallow exhale broke across his master's alabaster skin, adding rosy highlights and a temporary warmth. Insides aching, Sebastian ghosted his lips across one such patch of flesh, convincing himself that the seeping heat was from Ciel alone.

The cloth moved upward, padding piously over the round of one leg, two. Taut tendons and stiff muscles were kneaded and experimentally flexed: ever-so-gentle, so as not to aggravate or rip. The back of a ticklish knee was humbly molested, but there were no spasms or demands to desist to make Sebastian laugh. Instead, his hands slipped 'round to pet the bony cap, gradually sliding down the cords of a sinewy inner thigh. That, at least, seemed to elicit some sort of response: a reaction so engraved into the body beneath him that even pseudo-death could not quash it entirely. Barely noticeable to any but his butler, Ciel's crescent moon eyes waxed the smallest of fractions, glinting ruby in the candlelight as his thin lips flinched. When they froze again, the hint of an "oh" was preserved upon them. The very sight was enough to make the demon groan, trousers tightening as his fingers trailed over the crests and craters of the child's pubic bone. His touch followed the sculpted lines of the soft, pliable body, down-down-down 'til satin turned to velvet. He was wet there, too—not in the ways Sebastian would have preferred, but there was no helping that. He moved his hand without the rag this time, pulling beads of liquid from the child's teeny tip and savoring the softest of sounds: the quivering vibration of what he chose to call a heartbeat—too faint and feeble to pump blood to the member that Sebastian was so lavishly loving, but notable enough to make it clear that the boy _felt _something. There was a delicious tension flowing through his body, the kind that would have made his bitsy feet beat and elfin toes curl had he the strength or presence of mind to react. But even though that was no longer the case, Sebastian could tell— by the whimpers of his pulse and the twitch of his lashes— that he was not so far away as it often seemed, and that was enough to make the devil buck against the cold table, instinctive and desperate.

The dampened rag fell to the floor. The demon's belt soon followed in kind, the hem of his pants sagging as he exposed himself to the air. In the past, he might have considered mounting his master atop the mortuary table— ravishing whatever orifice he thought would best please him, tangling his fingers in terrycloth and silver down. But even back then, he could not bring himself to do it—could not ignore the possibility of tearing or breaking the flaccid form below, and that was the very opposite of what he wanted. So sometimes, he found gratification in continued caressing: buried his face against his master's too-thin torso and panted in time to the tremble of his heart, their breathing similarly shallow as Sebastian fucked his own fist. Other times, he'd clamber atop that skinny waist and play pretend: kiss away the taste of soul and formaldehyde that lingered on those pliant lips, thrusting into a memory. But on days like this, it was simply not _enough_ to be the one who touched; his insides throbbed and pleaded for the intimacy of yore, for that closeness that he'd lost, for the stroke of regal digits down the length of his body. On those days, he'd wrap his hand around his master's and lead that frosted palm to his heat, choking on a keen as he curled those malleable fingers around himself. Afraid that he might chafe away layers of waterlogged skin, the demon forced himself to stay as still as possible— gasping whenever involuntary jolts shot through his rigid limbs, resulting in brief friction. All the while, his free hand dusted down his master's prone body: flicked over dusky nipples and memorized every scar. He longed to bite and nip and suckle, to be as rough as he had previously been able, but he had already broken his favorite toy once before, and he was not stupid enough to do it again. He settled for peppering Ciel's shoulder with close-lipped kisses, hissing when his shaft swelled within the lax embrace of the boy's fist. It was almost unbearable now; with a muted moan, Sebastian moved that elegant palm up the length of his arched body: cool fingers dragging over hips and chest and throat. The tickle and the touch, so cold but so familiar… Another groan threatened to escape; the demon could feel its husky claws scrape at the backs of his teeth. With a twist of his head, Sebastian nestled into his lord's open hand, pressing his nose into crosshatched creases of flesh and squeezing his eyes shut.

"_Nn—_Young master…!"

A whispered gasp, lilted and hoarse. His fist replaced the child's, and with that substitution whatever reservation remained vanished. Pulsing, pounding, push-pull-push-pulling, and all the while the devil breathed into that wiry palm, drinking in its scent and faux heat and savoring the sensation of every dip and ridge and swirl of Ciel's worn fingerprints. He panted, he hissed; he kissed and murmured and tensed, and with a final squeeze he was as wet as the boy, and nearly as limp. But though his lower extremities were no longer pulsating, his heart had yet to stop; already kneeling, Sebastian sagged until his rear met the floor, still clinging desperately to the child's frail hand.

"Young master…" the devil softly repeated, voice choppy, half-broken. And while demons were not the sort to cry, Sebastian could not honestly claim that all of the droplets bejeweling Ciel's palm were residue from his tank. "_Young master_…"

Atop the table, the boy remained—as ever— still as the corpse he'd so recently been… Except, it seemed, for the faintest tremor of his lips: pursing around scrambled syllables as his indigo irises bled.

**X**

"Listen closely, my lord, and I will tell you a story."

"_This ring was meant to be worn on your finger." _

In the wake of the memory, the devil paused, palms pressed to the lead crystal lid of the re-erected coffin. Towering in its usual corner, jet streams swirling and patron submerged, Ciel's Cinematic Record had returned to life: coiling in serpentine patterns around and around, projecting glimpses of a colorful life cut far too short.

"_Tell me, Sebastian… What do you -ow of Jericho?"_

"It is the story of a young child's adventures in Wonderland," Sebastian expounded in hushed tones, lashes lowered in sober reverence. "And how, in the end, everything was just a bad dream…"

"_But if th-t's the case… who is it standing here now?" _

_A dream, you say? How horribly _trite. A trying sigh, a flap of wings; the devil spun around in time to watch as a weathered crow settled atop the mortuary table, looking very bored indeed. Or as bored as a bird was able, in any case. _One of the most tired clichés in the book. And how _human_ it is in its laziness! Unable to think of a solution to their problem, they choose to utilize sleep. Ah, sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream… _The second demon gave an obnoxious cackle, scaly feet scrabbling against the countertop. Through the curves of chemical bottles—clear, green, amber— his feathered form morphed and contorted, until it was almost as twisted as his (half) soul.

Sebastian's gentle glances soured, countenance curdled by a scowl that painted his features black as night. "And what, pray tell, are you doing here, Baalberith?" he demanded, clipped words coated in an arctic rime. "I had not thought I would need to repeat myself, especially to a so-called omnipotent being."

The crow lifted his glossy onyx beak, and the younger devil was not surprised to see the slit of its mouth had lengthened. Now the demon-bird could sneer with the best of them, and he did so with vigor._ I would watch myself if I were you_, he sweetly advised, head cocked and beady gaze shining with hellfire. _You are running out of time, little prince. Soon, even your sire's influence will not be able to keep the guillotine from severing your neck. I can hardly wait to see it happen… _

"You mean to say that you have not _already _seen it?" Sebastian countered lightly, turning fully to face his guest. Even still, he did not move from his post— ever the vigilant guard. "Could it be than senility has begun to set in, my friend? Are you losing your powers?"

Baalberith responded with a squawk of offense, wings flapping as if to swat the insult away. _Of we two, little prince, _I _am not the one who need worry about abating powers, _the crow rasped, words as sharp and cutting as the Scythes in Sebastian's back pockets. _Even a creature as stupid as you must have surely noticed by now. _The second devil said nothing. Baalberith scoffed. _Do you think silence will help you? Are you planning to ignore the problem until you 'wake up?' Foolish prince. You are already too far gone to be saved… _

"I have no need to be _saved_," Sebastian spat, upper lip curling back as his nostrils flared in disgust. The very _idea_… "I am in control. As a servant of Phantomhive, it is only natural that I—!"

_Malphas,_ the shadowy bird interrupted, a raw caw woven into the undertone of the disruption, _I must admit, I am disappointed. You used to be such a wonderful storyteller. _The crow nodded to himself, as if to confirm his own thoughts; his feathers shone like obsidian in the gloom of earliest morning. _After all, what are stories, if not truths wrapped up in lies? Or lies wrapped up in truths? They blend together to trick the listeners, but never should they fool the author. I am afraid you have lost your touch. _

For a moment, Sebastian could think of nothing to say to this; he noiselessly spluttered, growling through clenched teeth. "Perhaps that is how _you_ chose to interpret what I say, but I assure you, Baalberith, that I do not tell lies. Any untruths you perceive are of your own imagining."

_Indeed_. The crow was unimpressed, and did not bother hiding it. _Well then_, he continued, his tone deceptively bland as he wheeled back upon his scaly toes, spreading his broad wings. _How about I tell _you _a story? A story full of nothing but blatant truths, just like you claim to tell. And afterwards, we will see if we cannot agree on how boring it is. _

Sebastian glowered. Baalberith accepted that in lieu of proper agreement to his proposal.

_Once upon a time_, the not-bird began, in a mocking coo to mimic every mother who'd ever told a story, _there was a little prince of a devil. He owned a pretty doll, and over the years became increasingly obsessed with it. _The crow shot the casket a pointed glance, condescending drawl punctured by silken revulsion. _One day, the little prince shattered his pretty doll, and, finding the toy's husk impossible to discard, thought he might be able to fix it. To that end, he made an agreement with three disgusting—oh, let's say _elves, Baalberith decided, chuckling at his own clever drollness. Sebastian, as before, remained darkly impassive. _These elves told the prince that he and his doll were still linked by former magic, and if the devil did as they said, that magic would help them repair all damages. However, what the lead elf conveniently forgot to mention was that the magic link between the devil and his doll had changed when the doll first broke. _

For the first time, Sebastian gave a tick; despite his best efforts, his eyes widened, turning to follow the fluting and fluttering of his hellish companion. _In life, _Baalberith persisted, taking sick delight in his host's freshly garnered attention,_ the devil and his doll had shared their powers equally, and allowed their mingled life force to cycle between their bodies. But now that the doll was nothing but a splintered shell, it had no energy to offer in exchange for the devil's. The doll became nothing more than a parasite, leeching all of the life and power from the devil. In fact, after a while, the devil was not even a devil anymore: with all of his energy siphoned away, he became a doll himself. Or he would have, anyway, _the bird swiftly corrected,_ were that sort of transformation possible. No… Instead, the devil-turned-doll and the doll-turned-devil simply died, their bodies mutating into something unrecognizable and unsustainable. And the devil-hating-elves lived happily ever after, having successfully killed dozens of demons without _once_ needing to dirty their own hands. _

The final words resonated; a panicked ringing filled the hush, or at least the insides of Sebastian's ears. The sound was serenaded by a bout of avian laughter, Baalberith cocking his feathered face as he smirked and cawed and cackled. _You know_, he added amiably, in a simpering tone that made the other's stomach roil, _I take it back, little prince. You were right. That story _was_ very entertaining, oh yes! I can see why you—_

But what Baalberith could see would remain an eternal mystery. Rather, from that moment on, he would be unable to see anything at all. Already thrown back in the throes of hysterics, the bird's crowing head slipped from its neck as cleanly as if it'd never been attached; with a muffled thud and a heavy roll, his parted maw chattered against the assorted glass bottles amongst which he'd perched, split bill and bulbous eyes magnified through the prisms of embalming fluids. When scabrous legs crumpled beneath the weight of a decapitated body, the force of the fall sent those same bottles rattling, singing like wind chimes. A rush of film, a wheeze of lungs, a gush of gore. The noise of it all blanketed everything else—heavy panting, pawing fingers, the thud of a shoulder braced against a macabre cistern…

Lodged deep within the plaster of the far wall, one of Sebastian's weapons glinted burgundy with blood; on the opposite side of the room, a wide gaze flickered a similar shade. But the scarlet color of those enchanted irises was diluted and weak, much like the devil himself: drooping, panting, knees buckling in the wake of his fury-fueled adrenaline rush.

Shaking (and somehow unable to stop), the demon cast his comatose master a sidelong glance. Within the watery womb of his coffin, Ciel's expression had not changed. His eyes were twin moons, his lips possessed by letters. But his memories…

"_Kill him! Kill him now, that is an order!"__ Kyrie Eleison_. _"Protective walls never stand forever."_ _Miserere Domine._

The resistant hiss of fabric catching on the risen grain of spackling; a congruent rush of air dispelled through gritted fangs. Sebastian slid slowly down the pale partition, closing weary eyes as he and his master shared a single, dismal thought.

_Salva me. _

**XXX**


	8. Septem

**Disclaimer: **I may be crazy, but I'm not so crazy as to think I own Kuro.

**Author's Note: **Okay, I've got some **important announcements** related to future updates.

Next week, I'm going to be on vacation with some friends. Because of that, I'm not sure if I'll have time to edit, much less post, chapter eight. The week after, I'm to begin a summer project that is likely going to render me internet-less. Updates will continue (hopefully on a weekly basis), but they may not be as scheduled as before. Okay? Awesome.

**Warnings: **SebaCiel. OCs. Ignores season II (mostly). Death, destruction, depravity. Religious themes.

**XXX**

**X**

**XXX**

_Kshtfff_—

I was playing with stones when I first noticed the crowd— their tromping and mayhem sent rippled shock-waves through the basalt beneath my feet, and the scale model of a castle I had been idly constructing collapsed in upon itself. Faintly annoyed, I straightened from my crouch and left to investigate, hands full of rocks and brow furrowed into folds. Though the epicenter of the excitement was somewhere near the city center, small groups and animated individuals had wandered close enough to the outskirts for me to catch whispers of what had happened. In ever-changing clumps, horns glistening and spiked tails coiling, they hissed and gossiped and condemned; I caught fragmented rumors as I wandered past— tripped past—fought past, for as I approached the heart of the throng the fleshy wall of devils grew thicker, denser. Young as I was, I might have missed the incident entirely ifnoatforasdff_fff_—

_His eyes were twin pits of darkness and death: the deepest blue of the sea, suffocating and cold. _You could drown in them_,__ I'd think. _You could kill with them_.__ Through the ebony casement of his dilated pupil, I could glimpse a soul that shone with the same black luster as the orb itself. Opalescent, evanescent. I wanted them both._

_I wanted…_

_But if I could not have _him_, then perhaps this child… _

—_ff_ffadsfadklfjdon't understand," I confessed, glancing up at Asmodeus with a deeply set frown. Standing, as we were, atop the flat roof of a castle turret, the long shadows we cast had nowhere to go but down; the blackened silhouettes seemed to poke and prod at the riled conglomeration, as well as the writhing creature ensnared within their midst. "He did as Baalberith said. He formed a Contract and ate the human's soul. What happened to him?"

Far below, my suffering compatriot howled. I did not know him then, or perhaps it was that I couldn't be bothered to remember his name... But even in that moment, I knew that I would never forget his face. Shred to scraps by his own scrabbling claws; eyes so wide that I thought they might roll from gaunt sockets. Curled upon the dusty ground, oblivious to the jeers of the fellows around him, the poor demon undulated in visible agony, clear fluids draining from all facial orifices. I had not seen anguish like that since…

"_Carve the pain of my life into my soul," he ordered in a whisper, and beneath the nobility and grave resolution that acted as a funeral shroud, the boy's quiet entreat lingered, tinged with so many volatile emotions that it almost sounded emotionless. But even as each new sentiment surfaced, it was calmly smothered beneath the crushing weight of a single, throbbing feeling—more important than the others, more profound and telling._

"One cannot gain something for nothing, Malphas. It is called a Contract _because _there is an exchange," my sire intoned gravely, rosy cheeks ashen… as if to reflect the sickness of the situation. "When a Contract is formed, we fuse what little remains of our soul to the soul of a human being's. In so doing, that mortal can exert great power over us, and we over them. And because that bond results in a co-mingling of our essences, it significantly simplifies the task of corruption. But by the same token, it is equally possible for that human to corrupt us. The longer a Contact endures, the more attached a demon will become… quite literally. You remain hungry, because your body recognizes that the human's portion of your fused soul is not entirely your own, and on instinct yearns to change that. But as time passes, your soul—such a soft, weak thing! As to be expected from a product of _Above_— begins to see _itself_ as complete, and the longer you allow yourself to remain in that state of pseudo-wholeness, the more painful it will be when it finally comes time to consume your prize. Heart versus mind versus stomach, I suppose. And so, though it is far more tedious, it is safer to demand a person's spirit in exchange for some menial task, or to cultivate it from afar. Or lie, even—say that you will form a Contract, but make it one of words, not of souls. For if you break our laws and spend more than one month in a covenant…" Asmodeus trailed off, gesturing vaguely towards the pitiful devil squirming in the dirt, thrashing and screaming and so unaware to his surroundings, he failed to notice when Leviathan (wearing his usual serpentine sneer) placed a taloned foot against his temple…

I swallowed harshly, but remained stoic of face when the sandy streets turned crimson, green, and gray— jellified chunks of fat and brain riding on waves of blood to lap at the booted-sandaled-bare feet of onlookers. Those closest to the corpse wasted no time pretending to mourn; instead, they began bickering over who should get to enjoy the syrup of his marrow, the meat of his limbs, the mangled remains of his withered spirit. A brawl broke out, impassioned and (disgustingly) mundane. I allowed myself to turn away.

"Eating will rip you apart."

_He was weak. Weakweakweak. But I am strong. I will not lose myself. I know who I am. _

—"I do not understand why anyone would be so foolish," I murmured, contempt coloring my soft, judgmental drawl. The stones still-clasped in my fist chinked quietly; my father's response was a husked snort. I could not help but think that he was inwardly critiquing my ignorance.

"The hungry do foolish things," he _cleanly severed the tip of his cake from the rest of the slice; all the grace and efficiency of an executioner, that one. "The ext-rnal ones are weak, but the internal ones are weaker still. All the screaming and battering of those forces beyond will eventually wear your defenses down to nothingness… With alaksfffsasinside, I'd th-k that all you're waiting for is the final blow of the ram's horn. Then your walls will topple and you will burn." _

"Follow our rules, Malphas," he ordered, in a voice as rough and graveled as the crumbed stone resting in my palm. "Avoid forming Contracts at all costs."

_And the walls come tumbling, tumbling down. _

—_abmeterribilissimoipsefff_

**XXX**

**Diligo Victum Nusquam**

_Septem_

**XXX**

"I see you have not died yet."

Bent over a wooden wash basin—usually employed in the service of cleaning the dead—Sebastian watched as his reflection's mouth contorted into a wry grin, the corners of his lips crusted in flakes of rust-red. When he adjusted and re-focused his gaze, it fell to the bottom of the makeshift sink, where a half-disintegrated record reel flickered in and out of focus, wavering beneath the rippled surface. It was almost like looking into a mirror within a mirror, for his was the face that stared out of the memory's frames—vermillion eyes and pointed fangs, the glint of his Scythes before everything went black.

"An astute observation. As to be expected from one such as yourself," the demon returned curtly, scrubbing his hands free of excess fluids. When his shoulders shifted, lengthy strands of silver-snow hair fell to coil upon the floor. Similar locks had tangled around the webbing of his fingers; the soft wisps smelt of lullabies and the black forests of Wales. Though he tried to ignore it, the feminine scent wormed its way beneath his skin and settled in his stomach, leaving Sebastian with the unsettling suspicion that he had just killed someone very much like himself. But he did not feel remorse. No—his face reflected as much: he remained stately and calm, despite the cuts that wept upon his sallow cheek. "Allow me to state something equally apparent: you are an arrogant prick."

Lingering in the entryway of the morgue's back room, a scowling William readjusted his spectacles with the serrated tip of his weapon. Under his arm he carried his usual paraphernalia— business cards and a leather-bound book full of markings and notes. He had, as per usual, been working all day and well into the night; despite this, he looked as well kempt as ever, not to mention as disdainful. "Better a prick than demon scum," the reaper retaliated frostily, and had he not been so very tired, Sebastian would have berated Will for his lack of creativity. As it was, he half-swallowed a rumbling cough and shot his companion a sidelong glance, still half-inclined over the water. In the foggy depths of the barrel, there lingered a single, fading recollection—a small, smiling boy nuzzled deep into the murdered demon's bosom… But by the time Sebastian had turned back 'round, the film had melted wholly away, leaving nothing but a murky shadow. That, too, soon vanished.

"In any case, it appears that you have faithfully been adhering to our… agreement," William sniffed, as if his own words offended him. In all likelihood, they probably did. "I took the liberty of checking the list I'd given you. You have crossed off a number of names."

"Dear me. Could this possibly be gratitude?" Sebastian feigned a look of shock, helping himself to one of the towels atop a nearby shelf. He had taken the cloths out to dry his master, but there were still plenty of rags set aside for that purpose. "Please, no need to humble yourself on _my _accoun—"

The devil's mockery was silenced by the steely embrace of opened pincers, twin rows of filed teeth biding bruises to blossom on the base of his neck. The demon's grin faded, but that hardly mattered: it had never managed to reach his eyes. His stare remained, and it remained impassive. "You know," Sebastian commented dryly, eyebrow arching as he coolly regarded the Scythe surrounding his throat; he acted as if it were merely a gaudy and unwanted piece of jewelry, "this is quickly becoming a tired response. Have you never been taught that violence is not the answer? Particularly when you are too cowardly to follow through with your threats." Slender gray fingers wrapped around the base of the shaft, but the demon did not attempt to free himself from the weapon's hold. Rather, he gave the pole a fleeting caress. "As it is, you are simply wasting everybody's time. We all know that you will not kill me."

As he spoke, Sebastian turned bodily towards the reaper, mindless of the Scythe's jagged embrace. A trail of thin scratches, as if brushed by thorns, was left in the wake of movement; the tattered pathways prickled with bitty beads of sludge, so red they almost looked black. Noticing this, William hesitated— wavered. Expression contorting into some hybrid of irritation and befuddlement, he lowered his weapon and shot his companion a glower.

"I owe you no thanks, _demon_," he muttered tersely, nose twitching as his pursed mouth tensed around a sneer. "Rather, I came here to inquire what was taking you so long. That list was comprised of nearly fifty names, and you have dealt with less than half. Could it be that you are not quite as determined as we were led to believe?"

For the first time, a genuine emotional tell stole its way across Sebastian's face. The transformation was almost tangible; a bitter veil of hatred darkened his eyes and leadened his lips. As the shroud fell, his expression blackened: morphed to match the fungus gray of his nails, the lackluster gleam of ebony tresses. Had he been a lesser being, William recognized that he would no longer be standing, let alone breathing; the sonorous growl (echoing from somewhere deeper than human lungs) spoke quite plainly of his growing weakness. Loss of higher functions. Regression. But this particular animal was still tethered, and his collar prevented him from physically lashing out. It bought the reaper the right to wear a small smirk. It was a privilege, however, that he did not take advantage of.

"Grell Suttcliffe tells me that you have been sleeping more often," he commented instead, in a tone too flat to be considered conversational, but too detached to be called anything else. "And that your injuries are taking longer than usual to heal."

Sebastian grunted, dragging the back of a still-moist hand beneath his chin. In spite of the cleansing wetness, his skin stuck to the tacky residue of dried blood and oily globules. "What concern is it of yours?" he retorted brusquely, his voice equally deadened. "My performance has not been affected, and— if you will forgive me for saying so— I cannot believe that you would waste your time pretending to care about me as an individual."

"No, I wouldn't," William easily agreed, though with no more feeling than before. His glower remained a permanent fixture. "However, it has been a point of contention with Grell. He is nearly inconsolable in his distress. It makes him even more insufferable with than usual." The death god allowed himself a clipped sigh, looking (as always) entirely exasperated. "He was adamant that I see you in person so as to assess the damage myself. He has also been insisting that there is something 'wrong' in this shop. Perhaps you've noticed how he's taken to cowering in corners as if the sky were about to fall."

The demon hummed, a noncommittal sort of response. His fingers tightened around the ridge of the basin. "He _has_ been unusually quiet, as of late," Sebastian eventually conceded, "but flightiness has always been his prerogative. I cannot honestly say that I noticed much difference."

"…Indeed." William flicked his framed gaze from butler to master, from devil to coffin. The casket was making a steady burbling noise, shooting up jet streams of ice-white froth and silvery chains of bubbles. Behind the clear crystal of the cistern's glass lid, the suspended earl was speaking without sound or purpose: _Ki… ll… m…o… Se… _Heavy lashes flickered, lacy and coal-blue, like little living creatures: the drowned legs of spiders trembling beneath the sea. Lucent lids masked sickle slits of oceanic irises; their lifeless stare filled the reaper with an apprehension that he refused to acknowledge. It took him a moment to place exactly why… Then Will noticed the loop of film running between the eerie child's ears, and it all clicked into place. His brow furrowed, hand tightening around his notebook.

"Demon," the death god began softly, the strange endearment tinged with its usual note of revulsion... But not, it seemed, for its typical target. "Demon, though I am loath to admit it, perhaps Grell is correct, if but this once." Still perfectly poised despite growing uncertainties, the reaper readjusted his glasses as he reassessed the situation. "Your powers are waning; that is a truth that you cannot deny. And in the course of that deterioration I would surmise that you have lost much of your ability to see Cinematic Records." He did not wait to for Sebastian to either confirm or deny the accusation; the other's somber grimace was answer enough. "With that being the case, it is possible that you've failed to notice, but it appears that there may truly be something wro—"

"Nothing is wrong." The interruption was flippantly, the words clipped and conclusive. As quickly as Sebastian's mood had swung downward, it picked back up; looking notably more cheerful, he began rifling through the nearby stack of towels, plucking out those which hadn't quite dried after previous uses. Those which he deemed worthy the devil set gingerly atop a side table, beside a dusty skull and a wrought iron candelabrum. Within the holder's helixed cradles, pig fat tapers smoldered brightly, casting shuddering shadows and highlighting pallid faces. Standing beside this sputtering light, Sebastian looked more wraithlike than ever: the contours of his body faintly haloed and half of his face shrouded in gloom. William opened his mouth (perhaps to protest, perhaps to agree) but in the end said nothing at all; the demon chose that moment to glance over, and the mere sight was enough to render the reaper speechless. His eyes were like that of a doll: black as a bottomless abyss, pupils dilated to the point that they resembled glossed buttons. The demon decorated his face with a polite smile.

"Nothing is wrong," he then repeated, stacking the terrycloth rags he'd selected into a neat pile. "Now, if you will excuse me…" With comfortable ease, Sebastian began transporting the towels from the counter-top to the mortuary table, unfurling the largest ones as if they were the finest of dinner linens. Will watched the devil toil without saying a word. There was no reason to speak; he was not as foolishly soft-hearted as Grell, nor as callously glib as the Undertaker. All the same, he knew a lost cause when he saw one. There was no reason for him to risk overtime by loitering around in this place.

Still…

"Demon," he murmured, the thick lenses of his glasses flashing bone-white in the candle glow, "I do not know you. I do not want to know you. I do not know or want to know that brat you cling to so fanatically, like a starving babe to a teat. However," William persisted, ignoring the irritated glares of a demon disrupted, wanting nothing more than to be left alone. "_However_, even with this lack of knowledge, I am quite certain that Ciel Phantomhive's life did not include six decapitations, eight fatal stabs to the chest, four eviscerations, and an episode in which his heart was ripped out through his belly."

Sebastian regarded the reaper with a look of unabashed scorn, no longer trying to hide his true emotions behind a constructed mask of civility. In an ironic twist, the demon seemed on the verge of asking his companion about his mental health. "I can assure you," Sebastian charily drawled, rejoinder dripping with a mock concern for Will's sanity, "that my young master has endured no such horrors. And I must admit, I cannot even begin to fathom where you would have pulled such fantasies from."

"Can you not?" The reaper's somber stare, unblinking and fixed, ultimately brought Sebastian to a pause. His fingers stilled atop the rags he'd been so meticulously smoothing; his wandering gaze met his companion's and did not turn away. Neither said anything for a full minute, but at the same time information, realizations, and general threats seemed to crackle like electric sparks in the air between them. It was a brief spell, but notable all the same, for in that instant, what lingered between them was not enmity. It was not affection, or hatred, or even some twisted form of respect… but it was something that hinted at legitimate anxiety—the kind that one might feel for… well. In the end, the demon broke the connection by spinning away, returning to his work.

William wasted no time doing the same.

**X**

It wasn't that he hadn't noticed.

"_Kill him! Kill him now, that is an order!"__ Kyrie Eleison_. _"Protective walls never stand forever."_ _Miserere Domine._

Really, to insinuate such a thing was the highest of insults. What sort of butler would he have been if he'd failed to notice the subtle transformation? The warped frames of distorted picture reels, the static smudges over familiar faces, the strange inclusion of people who his master had never met? When he was certain that the reaper had left the room— heard the muted whisper of the velvet curtains waft to a close behind him— Sebastian allowed his face to crumple: brow furrowing, teeth clenching, mouth contorting in a pain-riddled grimace. If he were able to focus his eyes, he knew that he would be greeted by the most anguished of reflections, dejected and pathetic. But no matter how hard he tried to focus his gaze on the condensation-dappled lid, he could not seem to stop his vision from wavering—as if that water had somehow warped his vision.

"_For elevens today I have prepared a sweet milk tea to compliment your chocolate __gateau__. I do hope it is to my lord's taste. Or maybe I should first make a prize of that tempting scrap of meat you are so keen to protect…?" Lick. _

"_My lord_," the demon breathed—pleaded — a pious prayer to an aberrant source. The ache of it lingered as mist upon the glass, left by a voice that was as weak and brittle as spider-webbing frost. "Young master, _please_… you need but speak. Tell me, what should I do? How can I help you? Give me an order…"

"_This is the tale of a young child's awdfffventures in Wonderland, oh yes! I can see why you—" Blackblackblack._

Beneath the icy surface of translucent crystal, the boy hung in his usual ethereal haze. Like inverted puppet strings, the coiling ribbons of fizzling foam pushed and pulled on his fingers, his toes, and tufts of his gauzy gray hair… Only his mouth moved independently, ticking and tripping around its customary jumble of unheard syllables.

—_rammed my horn into pliant ffflesh, popping the sheath of his belly like the skin of a ripe grape, a-d out spurt the juices of victorausdifff _

The pads of yearning fingers forged desperate paths downward, leaving lines of lamentation to drip and drizzle. The tinny squeak of artificial dew beneath clawing digits echoed like a whimpered dirge, serenading the requiem of a frustrated snarl, bit through gnashing teeth. "Young master, _please!_" Sebastian hissed, the round of his palm colliding with the sturdy glass. A resonant reverberation, sonorous and deep, echoed mutely in the underwater world beyond. "My lord, those are not your memories! Those are not _you_! Those were the demons I killed for your sake, I never killed—!"

_He wasn't gentle. In that, at le-st, my butler kept his promise: my q-ing lashes had hardly met my cheekb-es before he fell upon me, and were my mouth my own, I would have shook the very earth with my screams. Unconsciousness was fleeting, the excruciation was so great; there was the loving riiisadsip of nails from their beds, nibbled to nothingness like littfkdsfffkaddelicate pop of joint from joint, and the scintillatigasdfa of muscles torn from ligaments_._ There was the feel of lip on lip, so ffffamiliar in itself, and the searing sensation of an asthma asdaffdsfttack as the air was torn so sweeawewtfff-m my lungsdfdsfdfdfff _

All at once, it was simply too much. His skin prickled with goose-pimples as all warmth drained away—seeping from his body like energy and strength. Deep within, churning bowels tangled themselves into a snarled knot, one that constricted- contorted- contracted into a watery nothingness. His dry throat was riddled by raw spasms; his forehead turned pale and clammy; his stomach fell far past his feet… Only to rise again half a moment later, accompanied by the astringent blaze of acerbic bile—

How he made it to the restroom, Sebastian was not entirely sure… but he was grateful, at least, that he'd not become sick in his master's vicinity. The hollow ring of his own hacking echoing in his ears, the demon pressed his sweat-slicked face to the toilet's seat, as if seeking to absorb whatever comfort the porcelain had to offer. It was not much, but the coolness of the material was a relief. For whatever time he was able (two seconds, maybe five or six), the demon would savor that consoling chill, then endure 'til the next brief respite— gasping for oxygen that he hadn't thought he needed. Again and again, again and again, his innards convulsed; it wasn't long before his esophagus felt as if it were on fire, his tongue curdled from a residual coat of corrosive fluids. Browning chunks of congealed blood, inky streams of glutinous ooze… the demon gagged at the sensation of something squirming inside of him, like maggots in a putrefied wound; half-choking, he managed to expunge several severed streamers, two of which had tangled around his uvula. Too weary to be appropriately worried (or even properly curious), Sebastian watched with dazed recognition as near-invisible strips of his Record mixed with other bodily wastes, dyed a rotting shade of scarlet.

_Choice? What choice? This was not a madsfasdfffatter of choice. There was never any choice. There is no such thing as "fair," little prince. So there is no reason to ackawsdjahis eyes, his eyes, were so deep and beautiful and opulently blue— so much so that they had once reminded me of someone else. But by then I didn't care, couldasdfasdfafffffadksall that mattered was this morsel—this meal, this all-consuming hunger— and the sounds that he made while "Dying? Dying is one of the few things you needn't worry about," A-deus grouched when I found the courage to ask, trembling fingers clenched around the ashes of my wings. I wanted him. I wanted him in my arms. I wanted to see him scowl and s-lk; I wanted to see that fleeting smile. I wanted to see the devious smirk that sent politicians fleeingasfastas their stocky legs would carry them. I wanted the cruelsdasdfasssion, the hatred. I wanted the faltering sweetness, so uni—ted the condescendence, the overconfidence, the patronizing, the temptation."But I do have a heart, Malphas. I always have. Listen," he urged, lowering his voice even fffurther. "Can you not hear it breaking?"_

Sebastian sucked a staccato breath through clamped teeth; perhaps that was how he missed the quiet thump of nearby footfalls. The chiming tinkle of gilded trinkets. The feathery rustle of down and gossamer, delicate in both sound and substance. But even the demon was not so far gone that he failed to notice when a calming hand fell upon his forehead, smoothing over his brow as if to relieve his pain. And indeed, in that moment the writhing agony dulled to a pulsating ache, one that allowed the devil to sit up straight, if nothing else. Whether this twist was coincidence or magic, Sebastian did not know or care; he was too distracted by the guest who had, once again, decided to appear beside him in the bathroom.

Uriel smiled tenderly, his blue, blue eyes wrinkled in a misery almost as poignant as his own.

"Well?" the angel questioned, in a quiet, throbbing lilt that filled ears and heart and every corner of the tiled chamber. "Can you not?"

**XXX**


	9. Octo

**Disclaimer: **I make no money from this, because I don't own anything. And it kinda sucks. XD;

**Author's Note: **Sorry I wasn't able to post last Wednesday… like I said, I was on vacation. The only issue now is that I'm going to be at my aunt's house for the next few weeks, where the internet is slow and sporadic. :C We're almost done—please be patient with me for just a little bit longer! orz

**Warnings: **SebaCiel, SebaOC. OCs. Fail editing. Word jumbles and confusion! Ignores season II (mostly). Death, destruction, depravity. Religious themes.

**XXX**

**X**

**XXX**

_Kshtffff_—

_(Si Deus me relinquit.)_

I stood, poised on the edge of forever.

_I loved him. I loved his tender smile, his simple ways. I loved how hallowed rays of sunlight would add streaks of gold to his russet hair. I loved the brush of his willowy hand, the whisper of his sheer shawls, the scent of gardenias that would follow him from the gardens. I loved the way he moved against me, within me; I loved those fleeting, perfect moments when we were one in the same. And when I told him that I loved him, he whispered those three precious words in return: murmured them into the shell of my ear,__ in a voice that resounded with the clarity of church bells— lingered with the ssssoftness of a cloud._

"'A being which can still love is not yet a devil.'"

_I loved him. I loved his tender smile, his simple ways. I loved how hallowed rays of sunlight would add streaks of gold to his russet hair. I loved the brush of his willowy hand, the whisper of his sheer shawls, the scent of gardenias that would follow him from the gardens. I loved the way he moved against me, within me; I loved those fleeting, perfect moments when we were one in the same. And when I told him that I loved him, he looked so very sad—as if I'd broken something fragile, something beautiful. Precious and delicate. _"Is this the extent of your loyalty?" I inquired politely, readjusting my hold on my weapons. With the silvery blades pointed downward and his own hands ffffree of cutlery, it almost looked as if we were about to engage in old-fashghfhgfhgddrfffned fisticuffs.

_I loved him. But when I offered him my heart, he refused to trade for his. How dare I be so selfishsogreedy; how dare I ask for more than my share of a gift belonging to all? Omnias ianuas praecludo._

"Is Avarice not one of our virtues?"

_I loved him. I left him in the lilies. I did not look back. __Ego deum relinquo._

"Tell me, Sebastian… What do you know of _walls that come tumbling, tumbling down_?"

It was not time for you to die. Where did he _go_?

"Would you like to form a Contract with me?"

_He was reminiscent of Ophelia, really, with his dainty armstwilight eyes unseen, sinking slowlyslowlyslowly into the black-molasses depths, pallid skin tinged a deep-sea blue in his newly-constructed tomb. One watery grave for another, surrounded by_ a snicker and a smirk, lounging ever-more-comfortably against the mouth of his grotto. "I need no powers to see that you are burdened by a terrible yearning," the older demon quipped, sound very smug indeed. "You _want._"_ I loved him._

"Is it that we devils know too little of (hungergreednothingelseremains) love, or that eating will riiiip you apart?"

_I dangled the thread before him, sheer and silken and strong. No one else could see it, no one else would care. But he noticed_yearnedpined_ for Emaciated as a skeleton, he extended his brittle arm: reaching out to greet the shadows that loomed above his altar, making and if Grell or Undertaker heard the boy's muffled howls— the screech of raking fingers and the clatter of knees on hardwood floors— they did not come they ask about the stench of sexsoulevisceration, though the pungent odowefroiffffasdwerhe main shop. _But though my lower extremities were no longer pulsating, my heart had yet to stop; already kneeling, I sagged until my rear met the floor, still clinging desperately to the (_hungergreed nothingelseremains)_child's frail hand.

"Young master… _Sic omnias precationes obsigno_."_ I loved him. I loved him. I loved him and _when a Contract is formed, we fuse what little soul we were given to the soul of a human being's. In so doing, that mortal can exert great power over us, and we over them. (_Hisindigoirisesbled_.) And because that bond comingles ouradffffsdfjaaasimplifies the task of corruption. But by the same token, it is equally possible for that _ loved him. _I loved him. I loved him. I loved him. I loved him. I loved him. I loved him. I loved him. I loved him. I loved him. I loved him. I loved him. I loved him. I loved him. I loved him. I loved him. I loved him. I loved him. I loved him.I lovedhim. I loved him. Iloved him.I himI lovedhimIloved  
><em>I loved him. I loved him. I loved him. I loved him. I loved him. I loved him. I loved him. I loved him. I loved him. I loved him. I loved him. I loved him. I loved him. I loved him. I loved him. I loved him. I loved him. I loved him.I lovedhim. I loved him. Iloved him.I himI lovedhimIloved <em>love_himiloved ilovedhimilovedhimI ilovedhimilovedhimilovedhim_ilovedhimilovedhimilovedhimi__love__him__

_salva me. _

—_abmeterribilissimoipsefff_

**XXX**

**Diligo Victum Nusquam**

_Octo_

**XXX**

Somehow, Sebastian could not bring himself to be surprise.

"Just what… do you think you are doing here, Uriel?" the demon rasped, sick-roughened voice catching on frayed ends of malice and annoyance. With hands nearly as pale and cold as the porcelain he grasped, Sebastian pulled himself into a staggering upright position; in the next moment, he was on his feet, but wobbling dangerously— tipping and tottering as if his ankles had turned to jelly. With as much grace as he could muster, he succumbed to leaning against the toilet for additional support, but all the while, the devil's claret-tinged glare smoldered with ire, much like fading coals in a hearth. His gore-streaked sneer was as cutting as the weapons in his back pocket. "I am quite certain that… those like myself are not granted the _privilege_ of guardian angels."

The sarcasm was not lost upon Uriel, but the acidic poison of words and glower did nothing to slay his sad smile. "I told you. I have been keeping an eye on somebody very important. Not you, of course; I am not _your_ guardian angel," he agreed, the faintest touch of black amusement animating an otherwise deadened drawl. "But there is a soul in your possession that I was charged to watch over."

He nodded once—perhaps to himself, perhaps to Sebastian— and exhaled softly, as if lost in remorse-tinged musings. If he noticed the expression on Sebastian's face (the wavering jaw, the flared nostrils, the visible flinch and flare of pain as puzzle pieces were roughly jammed together), Uriel did not make mention of it. Instead, he merely offered a second sigh— such a sorrowful sound— as he ran a silken hand down Sebastian's stunned features: crown to temple to chin, in a single, affectionate stroke. His oceanic eyes were storming behind the heavy curl of hooded lashes; like the water they impersonated, those glassy irises reflected every ripple of regret and undulating uncertainty that plagued the pitiful creature before him. His slender fingers lingered… The demon was not sure if the tears he saw were the angel's or his own.

"You are dying, little one," Uriel whispered, with a candid solemnity that Sebastian could not help but appreciate. He suddenly felt very tired; it did not at all surprise him that he had to rely on the angel's touch to keep his head aloft. For some reason, a rumbling chuckle wedged itself in his throat… Sebastian's mouth squirmed in a display of humor that he couldn't rightly explain; he fisted his hands atop his thighs, as if steeling his posture would somehow squash irrationality. But when his nails chafed against his legs, flecks of festering ebony flaked away, decayed and scented of ashes, dust, and sulfur. The strange spores joined the rest of the refuse on the grimy tiled floor, and inexplicably, the devil found that just as comical. Truly, it did not make sense… Then again, nothing really made sense anymore.

He was dying?

Uriel watched, saying nothing, as the bubbling giggles started to morph, the noises twisting and contorting just as rapidly as Sebastian's malleable expression. What was once a quiet chuckle became a raucous choke; the wet glaze of mirth was now a sheen of bewilderment, anguish. The creature's frangible talons threatened to snap from their beds when his clenched fists tightened, catching on fabric and flesh and who knew what else. He stared helplessly into the angel's commiserating eyes, and was not entirely sure of what to say next. Perhaps he should ask a question. Maybe Uriel would know…

"…why?" Sebastian whispered, voice cracking like so much sanity. Why? Just _why? _Why was this happening? Why was he dying? Why was he dying _now? _He was so close—so very close to reviving his master! It wasn't—

_There is no such thing as "fair," little prince. So there is no reason to act as if there is. _

The sudden surge of fury ebbed as quickly as it'd swelled, deflating the devil with an almost-audible rush of air. His shoulders slumped, his body drooped; he wilted like one of the Undertaker's corpses, knees folding beneath him and rear acquainting itself with the backs of his feet. But as his face fell—spirits fell—hopes fell and shattered and burned around him, he could not help but inquire once more: "Why?"

"Because you were greedy." A frosty retort, mercilessly brusque; it rang in Sebastian's ears like a curse, and he found himself flinching, as if physically slapped. Indeed, his goose-pimpled skin tingled as if it had been, achingly sensitive and bitterly sore. When he chanced a fleeting glance upward, it was to find Uriel looming imperiously… but for as darkly dangerous as he tried to make his stare, it still throbbed with the dismayed disappointment of a wronged parent. And somehow, that made the brunt of the gaze all the more difficult to bear.

"Oh Malphas…" the angel lamented, the name alone resounding with enough raw agony to break the stoniest of hearts, "Malphas, you poor, foolish thing! You ask me 'why?' I pose to you the same question. Why? Why have you always been so avaricious…?" Even as he spoke, Uriel's voice seemed to unravel: the tapestry of sanctimonious rage and affected apathy wearing away to reveal the worn threads of affection and betrayal that had remained tangled around his spirit, despite so many warring millennia. Much like Sebastian, the angel fell to his weakening knees, clutching at gaunt cheeks and tugging at stringy hair. The demon, for his part, allowed himself to be prodded and played with like some kind of doll; he offered no answer, or even bothered to return the angel's desperate stare. He simply shook in the other's grasp, back and forth and back and forth, until even Uriel's energies left him, and clutching hands slid feebly down the length of Sebastian's lifeless arms.

The demon, again, looked faintly ill. This time, the angel appeared much the same. The rustle of half-furled wings wafted the stagnant air hanging between them; it smelt of bile and memories, tension and torment. Uriel sucked in a silent mouthful, eyes and palms locked upon the scarlet-streaked floor.

And then he spoke.

"…listen closely, little one," he murmured, fingers folding inward as he visibly steeled his bent spine. "Listen, and I will tell you a story. It is a story much like that of Jericho… of a place, of people, and of a wall that came tumbling down." The angel paused to collect himself; Sebastian waited, watching in growing bewilderment as trembles beset his companion. He wondered fleetingly if, perhaps, the other might be suffering from the same symptoms as he… or, at least, the same core sickness. "Once, long ago," Uriel began, effectively cutting Sebastian's thoughts short, "our Father reached out His glorious hand and created a new species of brothers and sisters to add to our family. He called them humans. But in the process of cementing their role in our universe, our Father neglected one of His newer creations, a creature called serpent."

The demon's lips pursed in recognition. Uriel noticed the expression and nodded wearily, folding docile hands atop the gossamer of his wrap. "With each subsequent generation, our Father bequeathed new gifts. He altered us, so that our family would be diverse. So that we would learn to cooperate and thrive. I, as an Original, was blessed differently than you, Malphas; you were given more free will." The angel smiled unconvincingly, and for an instant, Sebastian perceived his decorative ornamentation as a collar and chains. When he next blinked, the vision was gone. "Your freedom was not as much as the humans, of course, but enough… and as for our serpent friend, he was meant to embody a more focused range of emotional dexterity, to counterbalance the more… positive… qualities cultivated in we angels. To that end, his motivation is, frankly, foreign to me. But I recognize that you, as one of the fallen, understand it."

He cocked is head in innocent curiosity, so out-of-place in this grave conversation. Nevertheless… "In English, mortals call it jealousy."

The demon's expression, weathered and worn, gained the slightest touch of wryness. "I _have_ heard of it," he droned, though the humor fell rather flat. He cleared his throat (with a hoarse hack that left his palm bloody black) and gestured for his companion to continue. Uriel did so with no further prompting.

"You are aware of what happened in Eden, of course. Envious that he'd lost our Father's attention, the serpent condemned our new brothers and sisters to a life outside of Paradise. However, at the time, there _was _no life outside of Paradise. And so, He created a new world—one that would reflect the free will that He had bestowed upon our youngest siblings… The same free will that may very well have damned them." The angel began shifting again, as if in discomfort; Sebastian was not sure if he wanted to move his body, or to somehow leave his own skin. But he had promised a story, and he was bound by his word to finish it… though the devil had a nagging suspicion that he knew where this was going. The very idea chilled him to his bones. "But our Father is a compassionate parent. He did not wish to cast away his newborn children. To that end, he gave them souls, and an opportunity to use them."

"_I will grab hold of that spider's thread_…" A soft murmur, an elegiac declaration; the devil stiffened, startled to hear the familiar mantra, and even more shocked to realize that it'd fallen from his own lips. Uriel did not ask. He did not need to, because he knew.

"Yes, the soul. That spider thread, that lifeline…" he whispered in return, downcast gaze drifting over his hands. Like a human's, his palms were riddled with ranges of ridges, crisscrossed hatches; deep strokes and streaks of pallid peach. Everyone's hands looked like spider webs. "If it could be proven that they could listen, if they learned how to behave, then the humans would be allowed to climb those threads back up to the world Above. But if they failed to… well. They would need to be punished. Furthermore," Uriel continued, the tale picking up speed as his brow furrowed in grief, looking for all the world as if spitting each word was some form of torture, "all mortals would need to be tested, like Adam and Eve, to separate the wheat from the chaff, as they say. It was a job too great for but one serpent… our Father needed an opposing force to our goodness."

In an instant, Sebastian's mouth dried. He tasted coagulated blood, remnants of acid and sweet recollections, their purity soured on the tip of his curdled tongue. "He needed demons."

"…yes."

The angel's teeth clenched, his whole body constricting— the direct opposite of the devil, who (in his shock) had lost much of what little control he had left. His face slackened, his limbs hung limp; the insides that had hurt so much seemed to have vanished entirely, leaving him as nothing more than a fragmenting shell.

"…he summoned the Originals," Uriel continued in a ragged breath, wrapping shivering arms around a similarly shivering body. For a moment, his eyes seemed as empty as his voice did hollow, seeing beyond Sebastian and into the ancient past; because of who he was, he truly _could _see it as if it were yesterday. Or even as if it were happening at that very moment. "Together, we planned the Fall. We lacked the power to force any angel to choose sides, of course. We could only… tempt. Most of those from the first generation resisted, lacking the… the capacity, shall we say, to be enticed by other things. We managed to subtly convince about half of those from the second generation, including your sire, little one. And then…" He swallowed thickly, as if trying to choke down the horrid, oily aftertaste of barefaced treachery. "In the end, it was as our Father wanted. Half and half. An equal chance for all humans. And oh, how I _wished _that you would remain on our side, Malphas! I _begged_ that we might keep you, but even then I knew your destiny. I could not change your path. All I could do was hope that you would stumble upon it… that you would not give in to your greed!" A frustrated hiss serenaded the silent streak of a boiling tear. Uriel brought both hands to his heart, clasping them as if in prayer… but in that moment, prayer seemed to be the furthest thing from his mind. "As angels, we are meant to love everyone, and to love them equally. You knew that. So I had hoped… I had hoped that you might see through my refusal. That you loved enough, and that you understood my love enough, to do so. I had thought that you might embrace our reality, and learn to be content with what affection I could offer. But…"

"But that was not enough for me."

It was a calm statement, cool and detached. It lacked all manner of resentment, a reaction which Uriel had clearly been expecting… Yet, the utter _numbness_ with which the declaration resounded cut so much deeper than any vindictive retort ever could. It was Sebastian's turn to gaze into the past, now, though he saw it differently than the angel: through different eyes and with different magic. But the emotions felt just as fresh.

"…please, Malphas," Uriel begged, desperation saturating every soft syllable and pleading touch—willowy fingers ghosting over skin caked in grime and filth and gore. "Little one, I implore you… Forsake your greed before it is too late! If you stop right now, there may still be a chance—"

"But I am not being greedy, now." Sebastian blinked—once, calm and composed— as he leisurely turned his gaze towards the groveling angel, his dark eyes glazed and unseeing. They sat in his head like auburn marbles: vitric, vacant. "To desire what you are not meant to possess is greedy. But I no longer want you, a being who I have no claim over. I no longer crave your affection, your attention. I want him. I want only him. And by the bonds of our covenant, it is my right to have him." He lifted the back of his hand, as if to flaunt the moldering flesh and rotting lines of the seal that festered upon it. The veins that ran beneath the brand throbbed and undulated, as if trying to pump life force into a separate entity: something the color of raw muscle and gangrene.

The angel merely shook his head, turning away from the putrid vision. "Malphas… the master you desire is dead," he intoned bluntly, voice dropping an octave in its gravity. "And though you can heal his cadaver with life thread, though you can reanimate his body with sacrificial energy, you cannot bring him back. _Something once lost can never be returned_."

Sebastian—'til that moment attempting to interrupt, to protest— froze.

"…you can relight a wick, little one," Uriel murmured, wincing as he watched each word brutally _rip _into the demon's crumbling heart, "but you will never have the same flame, the same candle, again. Your actions have changed him. His carcass has regained most function, but he is no longer human— too much of your essence has been pumped into him. His body is no longer compatible with human souls, and would not accept his, even if it were whole and pure. But it is not." The angel paused to wet dried lips, then hesitated a fraction longer as he watched his companion's expression crumple, as if all the world was falling to pieces... "It is an unusable mess, frayed and corrupted as your own. Did you think that only a demon's soul took damage from a fusion brought about by such a Contract? No. This was a hopeless mission from the start, Malphas. Your only accomplishments have been to destroy a soul beyond repair and to throw off the balance of this world. But the latter, at least, will soon be rectified…"

Uriel's shoulders sagged in the wake of a sigh, forehead furrowed in empathy and agony as Sebastian's hyaline eyes asked a wordless question.

"You said it yourself, little one," the angel whispered apologetically, standing with a rustle of shawl and feathers. "Demons do not need bodies to survive. Their souls are not human, so they are not ghosts… Instead, they become spirits of possession." An emphatic inflection, married to a sidelong glance— one made of equal parts accusation and pity. "And you have created an ideal body for them to possess."

A blood-smeared face drained of all color. A staccato gasp lodged in the back of a tender throat.

And from the room beyond, the chime-sweet _crack _of fissuring glass— shards and splinters falling with the sound of a broken dream.

**XXX**


	10. Novem

**Disclaimer: **I am poor because I don't own Kuro and thus make no money from writing this.

**Author's Note: **Once again, thank you to all of you who have taken the time to leave me kind, thoughtful reviews for this fic! Feedback always means a great deal to me, but when it comes to stories like this, comments are doubly appreciated. :3 So I hope y'all know that I appreciate you double! XD

Anyway, the ride is almost over, now—just an epilogue after this! Though it's almost time to say goodbye, I hope you continue to enjoy "Diligo" until its very last moments. C:

**Warnings: **SebaCiel, SebaOC. OCs. Fail editing. Really jumbled, confusing, obnoxious opening. XD; Ignores season II (mostly). Death, destruction, depravity. Religious themes.

**XXX**

**X**

**XXX**

_Kshtffff_—

Sssso delicate it was,the threads caught oncallusescuts of my hand; the sheet crumpled noiselessly, for the external ones are weak, but the internal ones are weaker still. All the screaming and battering of those forces beyond will eventually wear your defenses downdowndown to nothingness… With all that you've endured, all the souls you've let inside_ofhim, in and out and in and out as he moaned and pleaded and clawed at the eiderdown,undulating like the tide as I drowned in all that he was_, I'd think that all you're waiting for is the ffffinal blow of the ram's hornThenyour walls will topple and you will burnburnburn, London's flames strained for Above, but that heat was nothing compared to the corded tension of his thighs, the tender skin chafing against the black bristles of the horse he (thought) he rode, and all the while his mind echoedwith his deepest wish: _I want to die as a soul that he desires_ and in the warped frames of distorted picture reels, the static smudges over familiar faces, the strange inclusion of people who my master had never mehjwjlsdffffasdfklla_in pain?_ The bird sounded blatantly amused now, shuffling from one scaly lieformfoot to the other. Head tipped far to the right_andthen camecleanoff_, it cawed aloud as it regarded its dist-tcompanion. _Delightful! _it then crowed, ruffling its foldedwings meltedinhishands—ashestoashes. _Is that why you are crying? _His eyes were twin pits of darknessdeath: the deepest blue of suffocatingYou could drown in themYou could create life and cultivate happiness. Love is what will save humanity but it cannot bring back the dead _so accept the inevitable, Malphas. Do not act a fool! You cannot save yourself, and you_havemasteredthe art of looking and acting soveryhuman?" the boy posed lighidijsdffffaksweith his glimmering dessert fork, "You were supposed to kill him." And if the palm of that lowered hand lookedredder wetter_whocaredwhocared because_ it is not time for you to die, _but I willCarve the pain of my life into my soul," he ordered in a whisper, and beneath the no- grave-funeral shroud, the boy's quiet entreat lingeredtinged withsomanyvolatile emotions that it almost sounded calmly smothered beneath the crushing weight of a singlethrobbing feeling (ilovehimilovehimilovehim)more important than the others, more profound and finally, a spirit came forward, stood before the Lord and said, _Choice? What choice? This was not a matter of choice. There was never any choice. There is _no such_ watery grave for a pawn, a knight, a token piece, perhaps—but unlike his other playthings, I was made of his withered body, Baalberith flopped forcefully over: translucent eyes st-ring through me and into a future where I lifted him atop the mahogany table—just another delicacy in a five-course meal—and with his rump upon a plate pushedhimravishedhim and tonguestonguestongues and a bitty waist thrusting upupup_thattouch runningdowndowndown_, wanton whines spilling from a mouth that he couldn't keep ruffled sleeve dragged through a tureen of beefbloodgravy; my knee smearedingore andfilthand tarandmashedpotatoes across the rumpled linens _Dessert and darkness_ peppering Ciel's shoulder with close-lipped kisses _The winds howled_, hisssssing when my shaft swelled within the lax embrace of the boy's fist and_The platter toppled_It was almost _unbearable_ nowfor _you are already too far gone to be saved._

—_abmeterribilissimoipsefff_

**XXX**

**Diligo Victum Nusquam**

_Novem_

**XXX**

"You knew this would happen."

Elsewhere, the sound of short-circuiting machinery; pops and sizzles of raw wires, firefly-sparks leaping from casket to wall, base to ceiling, motor to mortuary table, like erupting embers or streaks of golden lightening. The electric _snap_ of countless currents of energy: whipping back and fore, crackling and fizzling, filling the musty air—much like the faltering fade of whirling mechanics. Both rumblings serenaded the geyser rush of a deluge of water… and the sodden _thud _of a stumbling body.

Uriel stood between the devastation and the demon, parted wings barricading the bathroom door. His somber gaze was as ruthlessly brusque as Sebastian's previous declaration. "Of course I knew," he answered in kind, not so much as flinching when the devil staggered to his feet, reaching for his weapons. "I am an angel of destiny, as well as the guardian of Ciel Phantomhive's soul."

Sebastian's response to this was immediate, feral—a snarl, low and black, wrenched from the deepest depths of human lungs. "_No,_" he spat in retort, glower morphing into something darkly dangerous as he brandished one of his twin Scythes. The enchanted mercury of the blade glinted a motley array of iridescent hues. "No, that honor—that child— is _mine_, Uriel," he growled, flicking his wrist so that the sharpened edge of the dagger he grasped flashed a menacing white. The angel regarded its too-near point without changing his expression. "And no one, most especially _you_, will be taking him away from me."

Beyond, the echo of pounding hands: slamming and sliding against the plastered walls, slipping down the spackling with an inhumane howl of frustration. Wobbling feet pattered in puddles; the swish and splatter of rushing liquids resounded, as did the slosh and hiss of spilling, twining, tangled Records. More wretched keening, an aggravated moan… a plea, as if for help. Hearing the boy's distant struggles was too heartbreaking to bear; machete raised, Sebastian lunged at his companion, fully intending to stab his way through, if it came to that. But he was still weak—knees quaking beneath his own weight— and Uriel had long since expected such an attack. When the blade neared his chest, he sidled an inch to the right; his fingers coiled around the devil's extended fist, effectively deflecting the blow. Though a fistful of feathers were severed in the wake of the weapon's cutting wind, he suffered no notable damage. The demon tottered, and in the end was forced to brace himself against the angel's breast. He looked loath to touch him, even gagged silently; Uriel released his arm with an exasperated sigh, forcing Sebastian's chin upward.

"Malphas, _listen to me_," he demanded, patience fading to be replaced by frantic urgency. Like a petulant child, the devil grimaced and tried to bite, to claw. "We haven't any time to spare! You must escape this shop. I will deal with Ciel Phantomhive's body, and then—"

No. _No. _It was simply too much.

"_No!_" With a desperation teetering on the edge of pure hysteria, Sebastian pounded his fist against the angel's bare torso—the butt of his blade leaving welts and the beginnings of bruises. His brittle talons scrabbled madly, shredding gauzy shawls and satin skin; he physically threw himself at the perceived obstacle, shoving with all of his dwindling might. "No, he is _mine_! I need him! I _need_ him, Uriel— do not kill him, please, _please! _I just got him back! I cannot lose him again! _Please—!_" Choking on a half-wedged sob, the demon continued his barging, his begging, his whole body _screaming_ as the sounds of Ciel's puerile straining trickled into his ringing ears. The resurrected body released another frenzied yowl, the outburst accompanied by the bashing of a forehead against the sopping hardwood. With every hollow _thump_, agony seared though both writhing bodies— still connected by the invisible bonds of Contract. Sebastian's voice broke around an excruciated wail, thrusting his arm through the curtain of Uriel's feathers: trying desperately to reach someone that he could not see. "Young master…! _Young master—!_"

"_Malphas!_" The name had to be bellowed to be audible over the yells and the yelps; the angel violently shook the other's shoulders, straining to catch those insanity-glazed eyes. "Malphas, that is _not _Ciel Phantomhive! Your master is _dead! _You _must _recognize that and get out of here! That _thing _is going to—!"

"_Young master!_" Sebastian cried over his companion's shouting—a near whine, a strident whimper as he strained and squirmed: like an abandoned child, lost and crazed. In the other room, there was the clatter of something metallic, the whispered rustle of silken bolts. Another tormented groan, followed by a numb-mouthed muttering that the damaged devil could not quite make out. Uriel hissed in exasperation.

"_Little one!_ You are going to die here if you do not—!"

"_Young mast—!_"

"Mal— _Sebastian!_"

The devil froze—brown eyes wide as pocket mirrors and just as eerily glassy, empty beyond the image of the angel looming above. All manner of speech left him; he clung pathetically to Uriel, ashen face gaunt and broken.

_Thud. _

"Sebastian," the angel repeated, speaking as quickly and bluntly as he was able, "your master is no more. That creature out there is an amalgam of the demons you murdered—they're simply using Ciel Phantomhive's body. I told you: the world is going to right itself, and that means you must be eradicated. It means all _three_ of us can no longer reside here." A pause for a breath, deep and calm; a soothing hand ghosted down Sebastian's emaciated cheek, smearing lines of sludge-black excretion. "Sebastian. Do as I tell you. Go back Below as quickly as you are able, and garner sanctuary with Asmodeus. I will destroy this abomination—" he ignored the warbled wail of protest— "and return home myself. After things have settled down, I am certain we can find a way to heal you."

_Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. _

"But… But I…" The devil swallowed harshly, as if his throat was clogged with tar. Frail fingers continued to tear at Uriel's chest, uncertainty etched into every weary crevasse and obsession-driven line of Sebastian's scrunched face. Pearls of moisture glittered in the corners of his glossed eyes, poised and ready to fall. "I cannot… I cannot abandon my lo—!"

_Thud thud thud thud thud thud._

Words consumed by silence, one mouth by another. The angel's lips skimmed over the demon's with an archaic sweetness—the taste lingered like lilies and sunshine and all things beautiful. Sebastian's leaden hands shook; a wave of tingling stardust shot up and down his spinal column, leaving each nerve a jumbled mess of static signals. His stomach flip-flopped as they broke away. He thought he might be sick again.

_Thudthudthudthudthud—_

"Uriel…" Sebastian began, revulsion warping the frayed ends of his murmurs, glancing up to finally meet the angel's steady stare— but he instead wound up gawking at a spot just-above the other's shoulder, where something peculiar was glittering the same blue-white as a winter's crescent moon. Recognition, half an instant too late.

"_Uriel, behind y_—!"

Sensing the same at the very last moment, the angel thrust Sebastian back into the restroom and whirled bodily around, robes swirling and bangles singing—but for as swift as he was, the Scythe's decent was swifter still. With a tinny screech, the enchanted metal sliced through air, gossamer, and the jutting joint of a wing; Uriel barely managed to muffle his scream as the appendage was brutally amputated, crashing to the tiled floor with a spurt of blood and a crunch of fragile bones and feathers. The angel, mutely seizing, lurched to the left, only-just avoiding an upward swing of the same weapon. Precariously lopsided now, Uriel tried to regain what balance he could as his askew attacker straightened himself, readjusting tiny hands on the shaft of the Undertaker's antiquated weapon. When he moved, his makeshift wrap of onyx silk shifted and sighed, and hoary locks wafted in a self-made breeze.

Half-collapsed against the far wall, Sebastian sucked in a sharp breath—one loud enough to catch the child's attention. Ciel Phantomhive paused in his pursuit of the angel, the dramatic tilt of his head tipping from right to left; the vertebrae of his neck creaked like rusted bits of iron. The unblinking eyes that fell upon the weedy demon were as red as the blood that had spattered across the boy's cheeks and decorated the grated floor.

A jolt shot down the devil's back. There was recognition in that scarlet stare, but not the sort that spoke of warmth.

"_You_," the once-earl garbled, his raspy voice artificially low— a mutation of his usual self, much like everything else about him. He moved a finger (as if to readjust glasses that were not there), and turned his curved weapon upon his butler. "_You are the one who broke my master's good silverware._" At the declaration, the child convulsed like a puppet on jerking strings; through his bitty ears, a familiar reel ran—a collection of frames featuring a blonde nobleman, a cobbled alley, and bodies moving round and round and round in the moonlight. It ended with an upward thrust of a blade; Ciel shuddered, mask morphing as that same Record melted into a different demon's memories, and his deep crimson eyes grew sorrowful. "_Why would you do that to me?_" the little one demanded in a feminine whisper, fingers slipping down the scythe's handle as grief overcame him. "_Luca, my Luca— why did you take him fro— _No_!_"

The record released a cellophane screech as the reel leapt forward—much like Uriel, who had dived at the boy in an attempt to steal his weapon away. But Ciel's body (fueled by the energy of so much rage), easily dodged the feeble assault, leaping like a lioness after her prey as said prey tumbled over the doorjamb. But though he could no longer fly, the angel was not without swiftness; he escaped the narrow passage of the hallway before it had a chance to trap him (dodging the parabolic slice-work that soon marred the walls), and managed to duck behind the mortuary table before Ciel launched his next attack. A silvery arc cut through the room; a moment later, two dozen bottles of embalming solution seemingly imploded, and the table beside them slid into even halves. The stench of formaldehyde filled the enclosure. Broken bits of glass glittered beneath the rippling surface of the inundated backroom. And yet, Uriel was nowhere to be seen.

The sickle blade of the Scythe fell against the wet floor with a gurgled _splash _and a dull _thud_. A dancing gaze darted back and forth, back and forth.

"_Do you think you can hide from me, angel?" _the tiny lord taunted, eyes twitching as the film spun on. His smirk had been slit so wide, one might think Ciel had used the blade upon his own face. A crowing cackle escaped those malleable lips; he swung the weapon around once more, just to appreciate the avian whistle of cyclically sliced air. "_What a useless waste of time. You are not the only omnipotent one here, you know…! I know how to find you~_" The boy giggled again, beady eyes pursuing the shambles of the store. A pungent mist of methanal roiled through the emptiness in waves; beneath bare feet, shards of glass splintered into spiderwebs before being swept away in self-made tides. Haloing Cinematic Record whirl-whirl-whirling, the still-smiling Ciel made a show of bending over low (with a tick and a spasm, mechanic and unnatural), as if engaged in a game of hide-and-go-seek. "_Ready or not…" _he mockingly cooed; his laughter jumped from sonorous to shrill, and his whole body jostled as if on the brink of falling to pieces.

"Young master…!"

Then, just as suddenly as it started, it stopped.

Ciel frowned: the pretty pout of a spoiled little girl, tapping his chin so hard it left bruises. With a slow swing of his hips, the child spun 'round— beady stare falling upon the demon who had finally managed to hobble his way to the forefront. Even now, Sebastian clung to the shadowed wall, leaving stripes of weeping color in his wake. "Young master," he echoed urgently, extending a single, quivering hand—straining for the veritable vision before him. "My lord, I _know _you are in there…!" The distraught declaration rang with yearnings and the beginnings of insanity; Sebastian's fingers curled around the dream and clasped it tight. "Please… fight this! Please wake up!"

"…_well, well._" The resurrected boy sneered around a sultry simper, dainty nails leaving wedged welts upon the pump of his lower lip. "_You again. I remember you from before. Do not worry, this time I will make sure to eviscerate you properly… but first, we have to get rid of that angel, don't we? After all, he is much more of a threat than you..." _ With a pleasant beam, Ciel lifted the oversized weapon high above his head, watching with palpable delight his own reflection in the waxy whites of Sebastian's eyes…

It all happened at once.

"_Sebastian!_"

The downward swing of a makeshift guillotine, the horrified scream that served as his name; with a scrambled skirl of feathers, Uriel burst through the ruby curtain that separated the front and back of the shop, nearly tearing it down in his rush. The whisked whirl of velvet, a deafening flap of damaged wings, and the shriek of ethereal metal as it carved though darkness, flesh, and bone— an eruption of liquid heat and sticky copper to accentuate the sour stench of preserving fluids.

"_Found you,_" Ciel sang, the lilted words ringing over the resonant splash of husked organs plunging into shallow water. A purple lung, the tip of a liver; coils and coils of pink intestines that undulated in sheathes of oily lipids, like earthworms in grave soil…

The angel fell without another word, cleaved in two and already crumbling into nothingness. Even the blood that blossomed in the icy floods— claret curls and garnet ribbons that danced and spun with all the grace of shawls made of gossamer– vanished as if they'd never been. Sebastian was left with nothing but a final, contorted smile and a pile of molten feathers.

"…Uriel…"

He exhaled shakily, not realizing he'd been holding his breath.

"_Now theweokdffffejhen—_" The child (just as abruptly as anything else he'd done) faltered for half a moment, like a toy that needed to be re-wound. A muffled groan; the heel of his palm connected with his forehead, battering against it once, twice, three times. The Record between his ears hummed, one distorted memory feeding upon another. When Ciel next spoke, it was in his umpteenth new voice: this one an octave lower than what should have been possible for a boy his age. "_I recognize you. You decapitated me_," the demon inside the earl accused, lifting the weighted Scythe and flourishing it with a single hand. Sebastian did not flinch when the blade disturbed the heady air beside his temple; a few severed strands of hair fluttered away, vanishing beneath the rolling surface. Also hidden by that murky swell, the boy's toes and makeshift robes swayed— almost as if they were floating, floating in a casket of nightmares and memories. "_And yet…_" Ciel frowned deeply, face tilting slightly-too-far to the side as he regarded the sorry being before him. Sebastian had long-since slid down the bracing wall, able to do little more than breathe. "_Yet, you do not smell like one of Us. Nor do you act it. What manner of creature are you?"_

For a lingering spell, the demon said nothing—did nothing—merely listened to the anxious, fluttering pulse of his own racing heart. He'd never known a feeling like this, not ever… it was more than fear, but less that terror; more than remorse, less than regret; it was disgust and hate and pity and guilt and joy, and it made him grin (ever so weakly) as he offered his master's body an affectionate glance.

"'A being which can still love,'" he murmured, "'is not yet a devil.'"

At first, the-one-who'd-been-Ciel looked confused… Then the lights-life-story behind his eyes changed with a shudder and a screech (_"Or so some Christian fool will say, one day," I tacked on, giggling into a gnarled claw. "But what think you, Malphas?"_); he soon wore a leer so wide it nearly ruptured his rounded cheeks. "_As you say, little prince_," the body returned politely, affable agreement decorating his pallid features as he shoved the curve of the blade up against Sebastian's throat. In its wake, a thin loop of burgundy: like a delicate, dripping necklace. "_Now we know what you are not. But what _are _you?"_

The once-demon hesitated. "I…"

_I am a devil of a butler._

"I am…"

_I am a devil and alone._

"…I am the one who did this to you," Sebastian finally breathed, voice aching with lachrymose lamentation as he gazed pointedly into the bloodied pools of Ciel's tainted eyes. The possessed child stared stonily back. "I am the one who destroyed your soul, young master. I am the one who killed the demons who now possess you, all in an attempt to bring you back. And… and it _worked_," he added in a hoarse whisper, wetting dried lips that had twisted into a reverential beam. "It worked, because I know you are in there, my lord… I _know _it, and that is all I need."

Looming above, listening intently, the boy gave an unexpected jolt—scowled threateningly— and readjusted his hold on his weapon. All the while, Sebastian's eyes never wavered; instead, the intensity of his stare increased as Ciel's grew gradually distorted. "Please," the creature encouraged, spreading limp arms wide in whole-hearted welcome, "please, slaughter me if that is what you so desire. I will not fight you. I will not resist. I have always been yours to do with as you wished… and even if that were not so, I could not bring myself to hurt you. I could not bear it."

The little boy was kneading his forehead, now—the heel of his fist butted up against his right eye. "_Shut up! Shut uadsffff_," the haunted child attempted to demand, but the snarled order was jumbled by the jumping of haze-covered film, flickering like his lashes and shuddering like his shoulders. Both sets of fingers leapt upward to yank at thick tufts of hoary hair; the enchanted scythe toppled into churning puddles of otherworldly liquid. Silk-swathed knees soon joined the blade in the water, and Sebastian watched in horror as his charge howled and thrashed.

"Young master?" he huskily tried, reaching out to tentatively touch that trembling arm… but was suddenly stopped by a small, shivering fist, which clung to his wrist as if it were a lifeline. With a full-bodied gasp—like a drowning man emerging from the sea—, lucent lids snapped open, wide and searching. The whites of his eyes were tinged pain-pink from popping vessels, but his irises… His irises were— "Young master!"

"_Se… Sebastian_…" The response was faint and tired, much like everything else about the frail husk that was once the infamous Ciel Phantomhive. His blue, blue eyes seemed to quiver in their sockets, darting nervously to and fro as he violently heaved, curling inward around his own stomach. Already, viscous globs of sweat had begun oozing from his forehead, trickling down his cheek and chin like tears. "Why…? Why di-didn't you… listen to me…?"

"I— what?" Baffled, Sebastian struggled forward and onto his protesting knees—flailing hands sending droplets of water and grime flying into the echoing stillness. The only sound (besides their panting) was the tell-tale tick of the mobius film reel, counting down the seconds 'til the next transformation. "How did I fail you, my lord? What did I do wrong?"

"_I want you to kill me!_" Ciel screeched, seizing around another soul-wracking retch. A familiar black sludge oozed from between his trembling lips, staining his teeth and smelling of rot and internal decay. Blobs of it landed in the wet with leaden _plops, _only to buoyantly crest: hissing like acid and shimmering like grease. Tendrils of slinking shadow tickled the back of the boy's bloated throat, occasionally peeking from his mouth as if a serpent's forked tongue. He had to fight to speak around the wisps' controlling hold. "Kill me!" the child yowled again— falling into his butler's embrace as he tore at his own temples, clawing at the film that was still whirl-whirl-whirling: letters and tea and sleep and sex and smirks and demonsdemonsdemons, no, he didn't recognize those…!— "Now! _Right now, Sebastian!_"

"B- but young master—!"

"_AAAAAAAAAAAA!_" The piercing shriek bounced off of the walls and ceiling; what few bottles remained resonated with the sound, singing eerily along. In Sebastian's powerless embrace, Ciel continued to scrabble at his own face, scratching and scraping until crevasses appeared on his cheeks and temple. Flesh peeled off and bled freely, raw expanses of bubbling magenta left in the wake of ruptured tubers. Panicked, the butler could not help but notice the creeping proximity of a foreign face on the Record— one inch away… half an inch… now touching the shell of his master's ear…

"_Sebastian! It's an order!" _Ciel screamed, azure gaze flashing cautionary crimson as he flailed. In his servant's embrace, his skin squeaked and squirmed— as if of its own accord, as if home to spiders and maggots— as streams of black and crystal oozed from every swollen orifice. "_Kill m—!_"

Another violent convulsion, shaking the child like a rag doll. Helpless little thing, Ciel visibly wilted: head flopping listlessly from the force of the knife rammed straight through his chest. Sebastian, still as stone, could do nothing more than stare at the destruction caused by his own hand—a hand now drenched in his master's fetid fluids. As if it, too, had been cut by the blade, the film that had been threaded through the boy's head fell into a number of disfigured pieces, images altered and edges warped as if touched by fire. The corrupted Record curdled in the spilt river water, useless as blank pieces of paper…

But beneath Sebastian's fist, through the grip of his dagger, the once-butler felt a butterfly's flutter—something soft and pure and weak. On instinct, he yanked the machete from his Contractor's heart… and there, skewered to the knife's tip, was a fading curl of memory. The images moved with the choppy hesitation of a poorly-maintained movie reel, covered in flecks of dust and long-since faded to an aged shade of sepia. And inside of those erratic frames, Sebastian recognized… himself.

_Askdsffffluttering tailcoat, carefully observed behind a thick book and a sturdy façade—the brush of white gloves after a bath, teasing rosy skin. His sultry smile—what big teeth you have—I pushed away, and tried not to moan when that mouth kissed my sternum instead of my lips. "Protective walls never stand forever," I warned him dully, cleanly severing the tip of my cake from the rest of the slice. "The external ones are weak, but the internal ones are weaker still." It was a fact that I knew so well, too well, lying in his arms in the blue, blue moonlight— shining down in shimmering veils over river and Isle and waiting granite bench, illuminating my life as it passed before my eyes. "It all went by… just a little too fast." Sebastian, I…_

The vision faded with the softest of whimpers, disintegrating into dreams and invisible cinders. It hardly mattered. Sebastian could no longer see through the tears.

"Young master…"

There was nothing left of him, now. There was nothing left. Nothing worth living for, nothing worth fighting for. Nothing.

Nothing.

He did not bother looking up from his empty hands, 'til so recently cupping the remains of Ciel Phantomhive's withered soul. If he concentrated, he imagined that he could still feel that spirit's delicate warmth—still hear its flurrying pulse… but no. That was merely the sound of spiraling silhouettes— a storm of countless enraged demons swirling viciously 'round and 'round, forced to flee their broken toy. Their fury, though unvoiced, was a palpable entity; the room smelt of horror and hellfire as the screeching cyclone of Sin coiled closer, as if trying to ensnare Sebastian in a web of mists and vapors. The once-demon chortled bleakly, unimpressed by their antics, as he allowed his shoulders to droop. There was no need to try and force this chrysalis of metamorphosis upon him…

"If it is a body that you desire, you are free to take mine," he quietly intoned, wrapping weary arms around his master's twice-dead corpse. Ciel fell heavily against him, like a child nestling in slumber; Sebastian closed bleary eyes, pulling his beloved's remains closer, closer, closer. It had been so long since they'd last slept together, and they were both so very tired… _Just tonight, young master. Just this once. Just for now._ "I no longer have any use for it."

The darkness closed in.

_To sleep, perchance to dream._

Nightmares consumed all.

**XXX**


	11. Epilogue

**Disclaimer: **For the last time, no.

**Author's Note: **I know that this hasn't been most readers' favorite of my stories, and I can appreciate why that is. But to be honest, "Diligo" is one of the fics that I've worked hardest on and am (personally) most proud of. So thank you, again, to Madeline-Elizabeth for allowing me to play with her wonderful idea, and to everyone else who has stuck with me throughout this journey. I love you all~

**Warnings: **SebaCiel. OCs. Fail editing. Ignores season II (mostly). Death, destruction, depravity. Religious themes.

**XXX**

**X**

**XXX**

_Kshtfff_—

—_abmeterribilissimoipsefff_

**XXX**

**Diligo Victum Nusquam**

_Epilogue_

**XXX**

In the beginning was the word.

But before there could be a word, there had to be a sound. Before a sound, a thought. Before a thought, a creature to have it. And assuming that there had to be something to give birth to the thought-having creature, well—then there was no true beginning, was there? It has always been a centripetal cycle, a paper mobius strip, rolling round and round and round and round like a reel of film in a canister.

Round and round and round and round, like the bodies in the Second Circle, groaning and thrusting and moaning and raking at the porous earth with the bone-caps of their fingers, skin long since worn to bloodied strips of fat. An undulating blob of a creature, the mash of melting souls rolled and thrashed and inched along, each amoebic _squelch _and _squish _and _ooze _of waxy flesh echoing over the crags and cliffs, ringing in supernatural ears.

The first demon, beset with soft jowls and heavy eyes, cut an impressive silhouette atop the overhang, despite his notable age; the second, leaner and younger, sat in a listless heap upon the rocks beside him, hands on his knees and vacant eyes staring sightlessly outward.

"…sometimes I wonder," the first demon murmured— Asmodeus, onyx circlet glinting in the vermillion glow of ethereal blazes— as he watched the damned mortals shudder into their sentenced sex, "why greed and lust are considered separate Sins. What could possibly be greedier than demanding a person's very body? Their heart? Their soul?" He shot a meaningful glance at his son, but Malphas—as had become the norm—said nothing. His forelocks danced in smoldering swirls of miasma; flares and embers tried to kiss him, nearly setting his lashes alight. He did not so much as flinch.

Asmodeus' crevassed brow furrowed deeply, further cementing the somber lines that added centuries to his face. "I visited the death gods that you had been imposing upon," he announced, calm voice tinged with exasperation and confusion. "The redhead mourned your fate when I relayed what had happened. The Undertaker chortled and called you 'entertaining.' The third said nothing to me, but expressed some stoic form of gratitude towards the redhead who had forced them to abandon the shop." The devil paused, mouth twisting into a faint frown of disapproval. "Had you even noticed they were gone, I wonder? Or were you so entranced by your delusions that you forgot them entirely?"

Malphas did not reply. He still had yet to blink. His sire growled: an irritated sound, resonating from somewhere deep and dark within. "While I was there, they told me of this master of yours. They told me of your life with him, your death with him. They told me of the day you met."

Asmodeus tugged serrated talons through loose locks of ebony and silver, as if trying to physically yank understanding from his muddled mind. "Child, _why_?" he eventually managed, an undercurrent of accusation roiling beneath the surface of the despairing inquiry. The sheer _effort_ it took to keep from screaming and stamping and smacking the younger demon for his insolence congealed in his chest like a palpable entity—it pinched the creature's features and tensed his bulging muscles. "It was clear from the reapers' Records that the Phantomhive boy was perfectly willing to give you his soul right then and there on that damned altar. It was preordained! You were _meant _to consume him! So why? Why did you allow him to consume _you?_"

Still nothing. And it was that nothingness that finally did it; the sheer lack of reaction drove him to the brink. With a half-strangled yowl, Asmodeus' hand bolted like lightening: snatch-wrench-_forcing _his companion to move, to twist around, to meet his wavering glare full-force. "_Malphas_—!" he roared as he did so, pointed fangs chattering in his jaw, "_Answer me_ when I speak to yo—!"

"_Malphas?_" The creature in his grasp blinked slowly—once. A measured, lazy, deadened gesture, like a children's doll or marionette. "_Malphas cannot hear you anymore_," the lifeless body droned, in a voice (in _voices_) both wholly familiar and frighteningly foreign. With measured clicks of interconnected vertebrae, the stranger turned his attention back to the damned (rape and need and meupareunia), watching in silence as eternity rolled by. On and on, over and over, sin and sin again. One reality bled into another; one memory swallowed by a second. An Ouroboros existence, looping round and round even as it consumed itself.

In time, Asmodeus' fingers fell from their tentative perch, sliding down an arm that he once thought he'd known so well. But since the day he'd stumbled home, even his offspring's _skin_ felt different—icy marble beneath clinging sheathes of colored hide. As his hand slipped from the jutting curve of that now-alien shoulder, it curled into a trembling fist; within his aching chest, the elder devil's withered heart shook with a similar pain. Loss of Grace, loss of Home, loss of self, loss of son… and all to the same cursed phenomenon. A contemptuous hiss bled through the demon's clenched teeth, one that had tangled with the frayed remnants of a mirthless chuckle.

"…there is a reason, I suppose," Asmondeus deemed to whisper, words barely audible over the clatter of boot and basalt, "that they call it Falling in love."

He offered his child a last, lingering glance— but it garnered no reaction. Not a thought, not a twitch. In truth, it no longer surprised Asmondeus, and he refused to waste any more energy on grief. What was the point? What good would it do? There'd been a time when his son was famous for his skills at construction, for his talent at renovation, but even _he_ could not fix the fortress of his heart; Jericho had fallen to pieces, and with it, the demon's soul and sanity. There was no helping Malphas, now.

With a quiet sigh, Asmondeus turned away, surrendering to the inevitable. There was, after all, no reason to stay. If the cadaverous demon felt his father's final touch, heard his murmured farewell, he made no indication. The mobius strip curved in upon itself; the serpent ate its own tail; the devil walked into the hazy gloom, leaving Malphas' body alone in the rubble. They had lost him.

And something once lost can never be returned.

**XXX**


End file.
